Surviving the Hunger Games
by AlanAlexHolc
Summary: You've seen the Hunger Games, you've seen Madagascar. BOOM! Crossover fanfiction! It may sound weird and trust me, I've had doubts. But give it a try, you might like it. Includes other Dreamworks movies and spoilers of third Madagascar movie. I do not own the plot or characters. They belong to the original creators. No copyright intended. Mind the language and mentioning of alcohol
1. Ch 1 Of Dread and Cranberries

**If you are new to this story, you are now reading a revised version of the previous one. And if you're a returning reader, the same goes for you. It's nothing major, just a few grammar fix ups that were bugging the hell out of me. I highly suggest reading/re-reading this. It'll look and sound a lot better than before. Trust me. Anyway, back to reading... **

I wake up to a very loud, very familiar screaming. I pop my eyes open and shoot up into a sitting position to see my best friend, Marty, screaming bloody murder in his sleep. His body thrashes from side to side, his bed creaking with every movement.

Oh no! Not another nightmare.

I jump out of bed and dash to his side, shaking the zebra's shoulders. He shoots up, tears streaming down his cheeks as he choppily gasps for breath. As soon as he sees me, he grips me tightly and I return the embrace.

This isn't the first time this has happened. Ever since we came here three years ago, Marty's been having nightmares about being picked for the Hunger Games. Of course, he'll never be picked. Thankfully, his name's only been in there once. His chances of it getting pulled out are literally one to a million. Yet as assuring as that is, he's terrified at the mere thought of the thin slip of paper inscribed with his name being read aloud for all of District 12 to hear.

"I w-was picked...and, and I...I". He stutters, his voice muffled as he whimpers into my shoulder.

"It won't happen. I promise." I whisper into his ear, trying to soothe him. I rub my paw up and down his back to slow down the sobs that rack his shoulders.

When he finally stops crying, he lays back down on his stomach and quickly falls back asleep. I sigh heavily, glancing out the dirty, spider web cracked window to see that outside is a cobalt hue mixed with hints of tangerine. Early morning.

Dammit! I'm a full two hours before curfew.

I turn to the others who're still sleeping; Melman and Gloria share the largest bed, snoring away with their arms wrapped securely around the other. My mom, Florrie, has the bed closest to the door. She sleeps flat on her back, her paws lain across her stomach. She looks so peaceful as if she slumbers without a care in the world. Thank God Marty's outburst hadn't wakened them. They'd never go back to bed then.

I can't say the same goes for me. The sudden howls emitting from Marty's surely sore throat not minutes ago had enacted an unwelcome adrenaline rush. The mere thought of climbing back into the rough covers makes me want to do a dozen jumping jacks. Might as well get a jump on the day.

I trudge to my dresser, careful not to step on the particularly loud floorboards disturb the others. Just as my paw grabs a hold of the wooden handle, my ears jerk upwards in alarm. A low, almost quiet hum buzzes distantly. It's coming from outside. It's an all too familiar sound, like the beating of a hummingbird's wings. I cautiously peer out the window again, squinting through the lines of fractured glass. Zooming high in the sky is a large aircraft, pure white and round like a crystalized bubble in a sea of royal blue. One second it's there and the next it disappears like a bullet spitting out of the chamber of a pistol.

That's when it hits me; today is reaping day! The day when the Capitol picks two people or animals to fight in the Hunger Games. Today, two people are to be chosen to go into a meticulously, dangerously designed arena with twenty-two others and be forced to fight to the death.

The urge to faint had never been stronger. I clutch the top of the dresser, claws digging int the wood, eyes clamped shut, breathing through my nostrils until the wave of nausea subsides.

Like any other everyday citizen of Panem, I pray that I won't be one of the newly selected tributes.

Once upon a time long long ago (3 years precisely), we had first arrived n the rundown town of District 12. As new arrivals, we had no way of getting food. So in order for us to not starve to death, we had to do this practice called tesserae where we would get a month's worth of food supplies if we entered our name into the reaping again. I wouldn't let any of the others do it. I couldn't risk them being picked for the Games. And out of all of those slips, forty-three of them are mine.

I pull my head out of that thought and get dressed. I slip off my nightclothes and put on a simple black shirt and brown trousers with an old hunting jacket. Since we can now talk to humans, the Capitol requires that all animals wear clothes, whether we like it or not. And trust me when I say that I'm no fan of this law. I snag my hunting bag from the closet and move out. As I pass by the kitchen, a high pitched growl pierces the eerie silence. I look down with a whirl of my neck to see Marty's pet Yorkie, Goldie, sitting on the floor, glowering at me in what anyone could describe as pure hatred.

Awhile back, we had found him on one of our many errands in town laying in the middle of the road. The little pup was as skinny as a twig, belly swollen with worms, and his fur filled with fleas. I was sure he wouldn't make it, but Marty insisted on keeping him. Even though I told him again and again how I couldn't help him considering I was struggling enough keeping us in check, that I could barely provide for us and he would just be another mouth to feed. Later, I decided to put the pup out of its misery by drowning him in a bucket once, but the second I held its small body over the cold water I thought of how heartbroken Marty would be, how much he would resent me. I didn't go through with it. In a matter of painstakingly long three weeks, Melman was managed to heal him up. And despite letting him live, the little dog has hated my guts ever since.

"I'll still cook you," I warn. He snarls and waddles out of the room, his makeshift collar jingling like a miniature sleigh of bells.

I exit the kitchen and make my way outside, shut the door behind me with a crisp click of the lock, and trek through the field of grass. The early June morning air is warm and moist, the sodden earth under my bare hind paws wet and slightly slick from last night's rainfall. The tall, stringy grass tickles my tail as it sways behind me. I continue forward, my eyes adjusting to dimness of dawn as I approach the fence. It's supposed to be electrified and chain-linked all the while bordering off District 12 from the wilderness outlying just dozens of feet away. But with how well our squads of Peacekeepers are trained (which is little to none), the fence is basically abandoned.

I wiggle my way through a hole puncturing the bottom of the neatly eaved wire- a hole that I had dug up a while back-grab my quiver and bow from a hollow log.

Before I came to District 12, I didn't know zip about the bow and arrow, let alone hunting in all, until our previous neighbor took it upon himself to teach me. He was an older man, a retired coal miner who took pity on us who were a bunch of scared, starving animals at the time. To say that practicing the supposed art of the bow and arrow was a hard task would be an understatement. It was the worst thing I've ever endured, not to mention totally humiliating. My large paws fumbled with the arrows and my arms weren't strong enough to pull back the taut string. Every day I practiced, and boy did I hate it. Plus, the old man wasn't the best teacher and nothing short of an indecent man. Always insulting me and cussing me out as if _I _was causing him discomfort. Wouldn't help if he got off his lazy ass for once.

Sooner than later (preferably later), I became a natural at it. It's much better and easier than doing it the old fashioned way if you know what I mean.

One year afterward, the old man died of black lung disease. I never knew him well, he never liked to talk about himself much. And anyone who had ever encountered him was not willing to shed a tear for the grouch. As I scavenged his house for anything valuable to barter one day, I found that he had made me a bow as a gift before he had passed on. It's bigger and thicker than the others I had trained with and contorts into a strange crescent shape in the middle as a special hold for my paws. Made of fine spruce and oiled with dark, black paint giving it a smooth and clean texture. And engraved in the wood, a carving of a lion painted in mustard yellow is displayed among the black background. I've used it ever since to catch game and sell it at the Hob, a black market in an old coal factory.

As I ascend a steep hill, I can feel the muscles in my face start to relax as I emerge from a thicket of brush. A sort of weight lifts from my shoulder I reach my destination, relieving. I let out a sigh. The corners of my mouth are already perked up. My friend and hunting partner, Tigress, says that I only smile in the woods.

I make it to a hedge and squeeze my way through the tangle of briar and thorns that open up to a barren cliff. Here I meet Tigress nearly every day for our hunting routine. I find her sitting on a large boulder with her paws resting behind her, face down on the rock. I sit next to her, not wanting to disturb the tranquil environment around us. She doesn't acknowledge me until I speak up.

"Morning, T." I greet. She turns her head, her bright yellow, red eyes glowing like burning embers in the growing rays of the rising sun. She gives a small smile.

"Morning." She says back. "Look what I caught today." She digs through her thick coat and pulls out a large loaf of bread with a knife impaled in the middle. I chuckle as I take the bread into my paws and press it to my snout. Fresh from the bakery. Very much unlike the flat, burnt loaves we make from our grain rations.

"How much for it?" I ask her.

"I got it for free. I think the old cat was feeling a bit giving today." She answers.

"Vitaly? Giving?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "You better not be shitting me."

Vitaly is the Russian tiger who owns the bakery. And let me tell you, the words "Vitaly" and "free" are usually never in the same sentence. Let alone in a paragraph.

We both smirk at the idea.

I slice up the bread with the knife and we eat the baked goods together. In everyday life, moments like this are hard to come by, at least in District 12; spending time with a friend and sharing a good meal together, even if that meal is nothing but a small loaf of bread. And surprisingly, not just plain old bread, either. Inside are bits of nuts and cranberries. A rarity.

Is Tigress sure he gave it away for free? No strings attached?

We both stare off into the distance. Below us, a deep valley filled with giant groves of trees and vegetation overflows the cavern to the brim. For miles and miles, all we can see are the sprouting, deep green tops of the oaks and aspens sway in the gentle wind. Such a sight can be a once in a lifetime experience. Tigress and I are lucky, though. Supposedly, we are the only, repeat the ONLY, ones in the Seam brave enough to venture beyond the fence. Others say that they're too scared of the penalty that comes with our line of work. I, for one, could get a bullet in my head every day for poaching, but I know how to find food. I know how to make my way through the black market. I know how to dodge the punishments. I know how to stay alive.

I almost forget about the reaping, the Hunger Games, the soul-crushing anxiety of knowing that every day is one step closer to inevitable death in this shithole of a town, in these few moments of peace. The scent of wildflowers and pine make it all the more enjoyable. I wish it could last forever. But unfortunately, Tigress interrupts it.

"We could do it, you know?" She says.

"What?"

"Leave District 12. Runoff into the woods, me and you." She says as her eyes traveling over the lands and back to me.

"You know we can't do that. We have too many mouths to feed." I say.

On occasion, Tigress and I have talked about leaving District 12 behind. Running off and making a life for ourselves away from this miserable place. But in all, we both know that it can never happen. We have too many responsibilities on our paws. Nothing good will ever come out of it for them.

"Yeah, if we didn't have so many kids," Tigress says. She turns away from me, scowl etching into her short muzzle.

We don't have kids. Tigress and I aren't mates and nothing romantic has ever wedged between the two of us. But since Tigress is the unofficial caretaker of the orphans in the Seam, they might as well be. She and I are the main providers for young kids. Although we are not entirely allowed to do so, we get the young children's food from the forest. There are well over twenty kids there, and if we were to leave they would starve to death.

Try living with that on your conscious.

"I'm never having kids," I announce. I'm not sure exactly why I say that, but it's true. I can't imagine myself ever bringing a cub or two into the world. And if I did, I couldn't watch them grow and suffer from the constant fear of the Hunger Games as I have.

"I just might, if I didn't live here," Tigress says as she picks at a clump of grass. I don't say that she already lives here because she of all people already knows it. She doesn't need to be reminded.

I glance over at the female tiger. Her swirling black stripes inking her head and arms pop out against her short, Chinese orange and white fur. Tigress is beautiful, there's no doubt about it, although I'm not attracted to her. If she wants children, she'll have no problem finding a proper mate. She's very powerful, too. When she wasn't living in District 12, she was a kung fu warrior in China. I've never been to China, but she told me that it was the most beautiful place she ever laid eyes on. She lived in a village called the Valley of Peace, where she trained her whole life in the art of kung fu to protect others. Coming here, life took a turn for the worse.

Her best friend who had worked in the mines, a panda named Po, had been obliterated in a mine explosion. There was nothing to bury. The whole town held a ceremony at the Justice Building to honor those who had perished in the "unfortunate event", as the mayor put it, and we attended out of respect. Everyone in the Seam knew or either heard of Po. He was kind and polite to everyone, always one for a laugh, a tremendous appetite. It was devastating to watch his funeral.

Standing there, in the large, marble dome, was when I saw Tigress for the first time. With a young child in her arms, Tigress looked as if she had been hit with a truck, metaphorically speaking. Her shoulders slumped forward, her posture crooked and broken like her spirit, her eyes dead. I too knew what she was going through. My dad's loss left me with a cracked heart, never to be truly mended back together again.

Later on, things got better... sort of (I mean, we still live in a goddamn dictatorship, so life is hell). Tigress took the position of helping out at the children's center and began to illegally poach. I met her not too long afterward and we merged into a partnership, but it took even longer for us to become friends. Since then, we've exchanged a number of talents and ideas amongst one another; she taught me how to fight and I taught her how to use weapons. It's been going on for a good two and a half years and I can now say that I know her like the back of my paw.

"So, what should we do first?" She asks after a full five minutes of silence.

"How about we set up the poles and hunt for a bit?" I suggest. She nods in agreement. We stand up, wiping off the dirt from our trousers and make our way up to a small lake in the heart of the woods. We set up some fishing poles to catch trout before we start off in the more dense part of the forest, where most of the larger foul is.

I can't help but notice the music playing around me. A beautiful medley of crickets chirping away, the bubbling of a nearby stream pooling with fresh, cold water, and the unforgettable melody of a Mockingjay. They're my favorite birds. Sweet and shy, yet they can be sneaky little bastards. Every now and again, I'll come across one and whistle out a few notes until it sings along.

Dammit, Alex! Focus! You don't have time to go fucking bird watching.

Right, right. Focus. We have to get this hunt done and over with. We need at least two geese and a duck to provide for today's meals. We can gather plants later. Hopefully, it will be quick so that I can get home and get ready for the reaping.

The hunt it starting out slow, but then we creep up on a flock of geese.

Perfect.

We tiptoe our way behind a tree, peering over around a fat trunk. Sliding off the bow from around my chest, I notch an arrow in place and take aim. It points at a particularly fat one. Out of the peripheral of my vision, I can see Tigress give a quick nod of her head. I breathe in, breath out, and release a second after the exhale. It sails through the air and hits home with a satisfying thud.


	2. Ch 2 In the Midst of the Storm

We've been out in the woods for well over three hours and caught three geese, a duck, a gallon of blueberries, a large bag of roots and edible plants, seven fish and four squirrels. A good catch.

We'll sell the squirrels to the baker for two loaves of bread. One goose will go to the Peacekeeper named Reilly for twenty silver coins. We'll use them to buy some more pain killers for Melman. Most Peacekeepers, like Reilly, are just as miserable as the people in the Seam, starving and with nothing better to do with themselves besides standing around with their thumbs up their asses. On the plus side, they are my best customers. The duck will go to Greasy Sae, the old woman at the Hob who sells mysterious stews to trade for some sewing material. Nice enough lady. She's the only person we know who gives us good to almost cheap prices on meats. The blueberries will stay at home along with the last goose, plants, fish, and bread. They will be today's lunch, dinner, and hopefully tomorrow's breakfast.

Quickly running to the Hob to finish up the errands, I take the time to visit my favorite stand that displays vintage nick-knacks as Tigress drops by Greasy Sae. It's not that I don't like the elderly woman, but because every time I go up to her with Tigress by my side, she tries her damndest to make us uncomfortable as possible. Preaching for all fo the world to hear that we're a young couple madly in love and yada yada yada. It's better when Tigress goes alone. That way I'm not tempted to bury myself alive of the embarrassment of the hag's proclamations of our nonexistent romance.

My eyes skim over the bushels of old junk cluttered on the makeshift table. From buttons to teacups and rings to stuffed animals, all are fragments of my homeworld. A world that was once a simple place where animals didn't mingle with humans, where we weren't ruled by tyrant killing children. Most are partially destroyed, scavenged from wherever these things had survived from whatever wreckage was left in shambles. I've never bought anything from here and I've never planned to but then, like most things in my life, it happens unexpectedly. Something catches my eye. A small, golden pin glistens through the crowds of rusting charms and chains, the eye of a golden Mockingjay peeking up at me. A really nice adornment to be in such a dirty, grim place.

I pick it up with my fingers, inspecting the bronzed bird melded to the clip in between my pads. The owner of the stand watches me. "How much for it?" I ask.

The woman regards me with tired eyes for a moment before answering. She's older, withered and aged like a piece of parchment.

"Keep it. It's yours." The woman says with a wave of her sickly thin hand. I thank her and stuff it in my pocket.

We leave with our goods in tow and make it to the outskirts of town, concealed by a fat grove of trees. The scent of lush greenery is refreshing compared to the thick smog hanging in the air of the Seam. I inhale as much of it as I can before I once again go back in. Tigress and I split the food and materials evenly and are about to go our separate ways. She turns to leave when I call out to her.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

She turns to me, expressionless. Looking at her now, you'd never guess that she was once the so-called infamous Tigress of the Furious Five. She doesn't wear the hand-made battle garments of silk and satin embroidered with flowers and dragons ever so delicately with a needle and string. Instead, she's don in mud-stained trousers, hammy down shirt, a torn grey blazer to a tuxedo that she had rummaged from a burnt down building. At times, I don't believe it myself.

Yet having a friend who is a master of the ancient art of Kung Fu can have positive ties to the bargain. A while back, she had agreed to teach me in an exchange for a quiet, strong errand boy and hunting partner, one who had a stock of weapons hidden in the woods.

"I think we can both agree that we can make an exception for today." She states, shouldering her bag. A remorseful look overcomes her features, and no matter how hard she frowns her ashen expression can't hide from me.

I decide to be a clown in this situation. "Thank God!" I exclaim a little too loudly. "I swear you kicked my ass more than usual last time."

She grins ever so slightly. "Can't say I went easy on you. I'll see you at the reaping."

"Wear something pretty for me," I respond. She whirls her head back to me as he jogs away, grinning.

Despite my earlier outburst, the reaping is no joke, but I think anyone-especially _you-_would have guessed that. Yet as the depressed, somber citizens we are, we have to make it sound like a holiday. Not just because it's the rules and acting otherwise will result in a brutal punishment, but because we're scared shitless. True we've laughed, smiled, had a good meal, but they could never suppress the absolute horror of today's events.

I head home where everyone is sure to be awake. The steer clear from the town's streets. Peacekeepers line the sidewalks like lampposts, waiting for any sign of trouble. And strutting around with a dead goose in paw is the key ingredient of a recipe for disaster. I trek along the fence, dragging my claws through the metal. On arrival, I witness smoke stream out of our brick chimney in a thick cloud, meaning that my mom is boiling water for our baths. Sprinting through the meadow, I burst inside with a bang of the wooden door. At the kitchen table, Gloria converses with Melman over a cup of tea while he sorts his jars of herbs. Marty is straightening his jacket in front of the mirror with Goldie sitting at his heels, and my mom leaves to pour water into the tub.

"Hey Alex, how was it?" Gloria asks as I close the door behind me.

"It was good, got some food and plenty of supplies for today's meals." I unload the plants, berries, bread, and sewing materials onto the table. I hand Melman the silver.

"Thanks, Alex." He thanks. I nod in return.

Ever since he started working as a doctor in the Seam, he's been more of a workaholic than ever. Always working, dealing with one contagious sickness from the next, tending to wounds. Sometimes he even goes days nursing a patient. It keeps him busy and helps with the income, which I'm not one to complain about, but if I didn't know any better I'd say he's wearing himself thin. One can't help but feel sorry for the overworked giraffe.

I hand the goose to my mom who has just returned. She hugs me and gives a quick peck on the cheek.

"Your bath is ready." She says.

"Thank you."

She returns it with a sad smile and heads to the side door to pluck the goose outside.

My mother was once a beautiful, powerful lioness. The crowning jewel of her pride. My father showed her off for every creature in the savanna to see all of her wonder and glory. And when they had me, they became the national treasure of Africa. A strong leader for a husband, a gorgeous wife, and a precious baby boy to inherit their fame and throne. But from the day we had arrived in Panem, that life ended in an eruption of ashes and despair. My mother has taken to this turn of events more emotionally than I have. It seems as if the world drags at her shoulders. Depression grinding even the smallest fragments of hope of her going back to the way she used to be in the coal-coated streets of District 12. Can't say any of us are the least bit better off.

I enter to the bathing room where a barrel split in half steams with graying water. A ratty towel and a bar of homemade soap wait for me on a stool. I strip off my clothes and sink into the water, a shiver running down my spine at the intensity of heat. It's nothing short of scorching hot and I'm sure that I'll leave with a few burn marks, but if I want to get properly clean I have to wash in this literal cauldron of boiling stew like a lobster.

Lathering the fur of my arms with the unscented soap, my gaze shifts to the broken window glowing with sunlight. My movements slow to a stop as I stare at it, the panel illuminated like a beacon. Calling to me like the window I had watched through all those years ago, the window that allowed me to see my people's deaths.

—

Three years ago on the plains of Africa, we were roaming the grasslands with my parents. It was a beautiful day: sunny and dry, the scent of wild grass and dirt pungent in the air. The other day, we had just watched the penguins leave in the giant monkey-powered super plane and for the past week now, I had become more acquainted with my parents.

Walking side by side with my father, he suddenly grabbed a hold of my shoulder, stopping us in our tracks. The others continued to walk forward, oblivious to their lack of followers! as I watched my father. His dark, straight eyebrows were furrowed into a scowl, but not the kind for reprimanding. He looked worried, almost nervous.

What did he have to be nervous about? Did I do something wrong?

"Alakay," he said, "you know I love you, right?"

I blinked in surprise. "Of course, Dad."

"And that I'd do anything to protect you?"

"Yes!" I retort, stunned at his inquiries. "I know that."

He avoids my eyes, running a large paw through his thick mane of black hair. I start to get a little anxious. I've never seen him like this before.

"Dad, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just..." he paused, his dark green eyes darting across the tall yellow and brown clusters of grass. "I wasn't sure if you knew how much your mother and I..." he drifts off.

"How much you and mom what?" I ask, getting impatient.

After a moment, he takes a deep and straightens his back, his chest puffing out proudly. More sure of himself. "When you were taken, I tried to go after you. I ran after those hunters as fast as I could. I even had you in my arms at one point. But no matter hard I tried, no matter how hard I ran, I could never catch up. You slipped right through my paws and... and... I thought I had lost you forever. And then you come back to us. After all these years you come back alive and healthy... and the next thing I know you've gone off to the reserve. And I... I couldn't..." He stops, his assured posture deflating.

And it hits me. "Dad." I rest my paw on his shoulder and he finally looks at me. The wrinkled flesh at the corners of his mouth hangs from his mouth as if the blood in his face had been drained.

"You don't ever have to worry about me. I'm right here." I say. "And you don't need to protect me, because no harm will ever come to me. And that's thanks to you."

"But-But I overheard you and your friends talking about going back to New York and-and your mother and me-"

"Will be just fine." I interrupt him. "You know why?" He gives a quizzical look and I don't wait for him to answer. "Because you will know that whether I'm New York or here in Africa, I'll always come back. Even if I have to rent a rowboat and sail halfway around the world, I will always find a way to come back."

I'm not sure how I managed to sound so wise, or if I even said anything of the like. It's just how I remember it. But the one thing I know for certain is that after I had said that, my father's smile was forever imprinted in my mind. The corners of his mouth no longer hung limply at his jaw, his eyes no longer darted to and fro in an anxious manner. His smile, his simple smile, was a symbol of his trust. That he had put his faith in me and my statement. It meant more to me than I can ever express.

Little did I know that in the end, nothing I had said would ensure our future. In fact, it only sealed our demise.

It started out as a dot. So small and so insignificant that I didn't think twice upon seeing it. But then in came closer, and it grew bigger. And so we stopped, both of us watching in angst as what appeared to be an aircraft soared through the sky. It was impossibly big and round with white, curved wings that resemble a snow-white sting ray frozen mid flap. It glided forward and gently landed in the distance, blowing up clouds of brown dust. It sat there for a moment, quiet and still, but even from where I stood dozens of feet away I could see a door slide open and spot a ramp. Men in white suits filed out of the ship, all identical. They marched off in different directions, each cluster lead by a commanding officer. And like the calm before the storm, they suddenly snapped. They charged like a raging herd of rhinos, barking and howling battle cries. One group headed straight towards us, large guns in tow. My dad yanked on my arm and we got down on all fours to run only to be confronted by yet another batch of soldiers. Their armor was like an albino insect's, padded with white titanium, stitched with a cloth I couldn't name, the majority of their helmets overtaken by giant black eye sockets. We were surrounded. One of them held a pistol that was larger than the rest and from it came a blast of black. It flowered above our heads into a net and as if hypnotized, I stood and watched as it descended. I felt my dad grab me and pull us in the other direction at lightning speed. We landed in a heap and I turned to see the snare land with a thwack right where we just were.

_BAM!_

A heavy weight pummeled into my side and my head slammed into the ground, my vision blurring white. For a moment I couldn't see, feel, or hear anything. Through a sheen of mist fogging my eyes, I saw that two soldiers had tackled us from the side and were trying to contain us. A ringing in my ears muffled their grunts and groans of struggle. I gritted my teeth as I tried to push them off, but their suits must've been made rocks because they wouldn't budge. I arched my back and flailed my arms and feet underneath them, pushing and pushing to no avail.

My dad was in a very similar state. A pair of troops was hunched over him, straining to control the now frenzied lion. My father, a mighty and powerful leader of a lion pride, used al of his strength and shoved the two straight off of him. In a flash of brown and black, he pounced at one of the disheveled soldiers that had previously tried to hold him down, baring his fangs and raised his claws, poised to lash.

_Click._

Something went off above me and with a turn of my head, I saw that a man had unhooked a gun from his hip, extending it with unshaking arms, his gloved finger hovering over the trigger. I didn't realize what he was doing until a loud boom rang out, resonating through my entire being. Time slowed to a stop as I watched my father stumble back, clutching at his chest. Slowly, ever so slowly, he fell to the ground, his body limp as a crimson liquid leaking from where his heart was.

... no. No no... no no no no no no no no.

"Al... Alakay..." He mumbled through blood coated lips. I watched him. I watched with a still heart, unblinking eyes, motionless body, as the light left his green eyes.

No no no no no no no no no no...

This... this couldn't... this couldn't be happening. It can't be happening.

"No...No, Dad!" I cried out. I was vaguely aware that the soldiers were hoisting me up, their fists of iron causing little to no pain due to unexpected numbness. "Let go of me! Dad! NO!" I shouted at them, even though I knew all they heard were roars.

No, no no no no no no no no NO!

No! No, God, please no!

As they dragged me along, I pulled and pulled with every fiber and bone in my body, screaming and crying till my vocal cords were shredded to nothing.

He can't be dead he can't be dead he can't be dead he can't be dead!

From what I can recall of my trip from the field to the aircraft, it involved a lot of punching, kicking, and biting. My vision had gone into some sort of tunnel where the walls were a blur of grey and white, the end laid my father's corpse. Suddenly, a soldier cried out of the corner of my eye, jumping away when I bit down on something hard and meaty. The blob of a man shrieked, an appendage of his came away dripping with blood.

Did I do that? I didn't care to know.

Three more men came to help their fellow brothers in arms and restrained me. I felt one punch me in the face, putting my blood lust fit to a stop if only momentarily. I was then thrown onto the floor, the back of my head banging against hard metal. With my eyes clenched shut I stayed there, the wind knocked out of me, as the door shut with an echoing clamp of its locks. Slowly I sat up to find myself in some sort of a room, more like a prison cell than anything. A small window the size of a textbook was the only outage to the outside world except for the door, streaming with yellow light. I scrambled to it, pressing my nose against the thick glass. Ten stories below me, white donned soldiers scampered along the ground like ants, chasing after terrified animals. Bullets were fired, nets were thrown, cries for help were left unanswered. I could've sworn I saw my father's body lying in the midst. I continued to watch in horror.

This can't be happening! This can't be happening!

After what felt like an eternity, the troops came back to their ship with their catch of animals and the aircraft started to take off. I barely felt the sway of the vehicle leave the ground. Time ticked by; seconds to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days, but I couldn't tell. And I didn't care. I didn't care because I didn't want to. I didn't care because I refused to. I didn't care because all I felt was total hysteria take over my thoughts. What little of my heart there was had been left behind in Africa, brutally ripped out of my chest and left to bleed out at my dead father's side.

I leaned all of my weight onto the wall and slid down until my legs gave out, my long fur of my back brushing the cool steel grazing my spine, my arms wrapped around my knees. I sat there, gasping, my thoughts nothing but jumbled randomness. Somewhere far away, a distant throbbing stung my cheek. Must've been where they had hit me. But it was more like a thorn prick compared to the absolute agony I was in.

He's... ... he's... he's gone. He's gone, he's gone.

The steel door sighed open, revealing eight pairs of white boots and three others with white coats trailing at their calves. I didn't look up. I refused to look up. The men quickly got a hold of me before I could try anything and strapped my arms and legs together with lengths of thick rope, even took the measure sealing a large muzzle over my mouth. They forced me to lay down on my stomach, all of them pressing down on my head and body with their conjoined mass, making it nearly impossible for me to move. I didn't bother to struggle.

He's gone he's gone he's gone he's gone he's gone...

One of the doctors grabbed ahold of something on a medical cart that had been wheeled in. I chanced a glance upwards to see that delicately balanced in his thin fingers was a long syringe filled to the brim a blue liquid, clicking the glass vial with his gloved fingernail. The men pressed even harder, grasping the back of my skull with their balled fits and allowed the man to stab the instrument into the flesh of my bicep, pulling on the plunger. I still didn't move.

He's gone he's gone he's gone he's gone he's gone...

A deep ache coursed through my arm, spreading to my shoulder, my chest, my belly, my legs. It felt like fire, scorching my veins, bones, flesh, blood. Flames licking my insides, marking invisible, searing burns. And suddenly, I snapped. I roared in pain, I roared in agony, I roared despite the weighted metal clamp on my snout, I roared for all the world to hear of my anguish. I screamed and thrashed under the soldiers' knotted bodies, the back of my eyelids flashing white, my body going out of control due to the tremendous spasms shaking my limbs. At that moment, death would have been considered a blessing.

This is it! This is how it ends! I have lived my last day.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the pain subsided to a numbing tingle. I stilled to a stop, panting short breaths with my tongue lolling out of my mouth as the suited men cautiously got up and undid me. I didn't move. I didn't want to move. I refused to move.

"Quite the fighter, ain't he?" A voice said above me.

The last thing I wanted at that moment was to make eye contact with the ones who had murdered my father and enslaved my people. To see my reflection in those bulbous black eyes embedded into their helmets, hollow and empty like that of an insect's. My eyes were too watery to see anyway.

"Hell yeah, he is." Another asked, his voice deeper than his comrade's. "Did you see what he did to Jackson?"

"Yeah. The poor guy nearly got his arm torn off."

We're they talking about the person I had bitten earlier?

A sudden pressure became present on my temple, smelling of rubber and dirt. "Son of a bitch got him good." The soldier kicked back his book harder than needed, my head jerking to the side with a smack of my ear against the floor.

A burst of flavor coated my tongue. The distinct iron tang of blood.

Their feet trampled heavily by my head before exiting out my vision with the door shutting following after them. My throat was raw, my head ached, my muscles in miserable soreness, my appendages plump with the foreign substance now circulating through my blood vessels. I curled myself into a ball, fresh tears trickling down my sweaty face.

What little sanity I managed to cling enabled me to start thinking. Questions formed in my head, bobbing like wreckage at sea as if I were drowning in this mess.

Where are they taking me? Why me? Where are my friends? Where's my mother? What's happening?

I don't know I don't know I don't know.

But I did know that I was dying to close my eyes, to drown my worries in the murkiness of the injected fluid. I will fight and maul and beat the shit out of anyone that got in my way of finding the answers. After I rest, for... for just a minute... just one minu...

I drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

After that, it was a bit blurry; all I remember was arriving in some deserted village and being placed in a house. Inside, I was reunited with my friends and mom and a woman in a stiff pencil skirt and pale hair explained to us what had happened. How the people who had kidnapped us, Peacekeepers of the Capitol, had enabled us to talk to humans and had placed us in specially designed districts made to provide and tend to the needs of our new leaders. The country of Panem, she had called it. The supposed land of the victorious.

From that moment forward, I knew that my life would never be the same.


	3. Ch 3 In the Square

It's only then that I hear Gloria's continuous pounding of her knuckles against the door that I've been in the bath for too long. The water has lost its warmth and I shiver as I exit out of the barrel, my sopping wet fur sloshing with sudsy water. I quickly pat myself down with a towel and slip into a white button-up and a pair of pants we had found at a local thrift store. It's dotted with moth-eaten holes, patched back together with red and black checkered strips of cloth. My shirt is wrinkled like an old tissue, lengths of string trailing the cuffs. I cut them off with the side of my claws. As I'm finishing up with combing out my mane, Marty steps in, donned in his own outfit: same trousers, same shirt, a wool blazer too small for him.

"Hey, Al." He says as he leans against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. He's lost a lot of weight in the past few years. His belly, cheeks, and legs have thinned to nothing but skin and bones. His once fine coat of vibrant black and white stripes have dulled, almost to a grey. If he were to run past me, I'd see nothing but a streak of steel grey.

"Hey, Marty." I return, setting the comb down on an old chest. I sit down next to it, clasping my paws together between my legs.

The friendship Marty and I once had; the unbreakable, brotherly love that had bonded between the two of us; had done the most unexpected, impossible thing in the history of friendships: it had broken. We weren't the same animals we once were all those years ago in New York. We were no longer lively, fun, bumbling pair of besties who's relationship would only go stronger for they were, what was playfully coined, thick as thieves. Instead, we've only grown apart. With everyday that passes in this damn town, the farther we distance from one another. Marty has committed himself to being Melman's personal nurse and works just as hard-if not more-as the giraffe. And try as I might, I've done nothing but let him slip from my grasp as I venture deeper into the woods.

We remain in one another's presence in awkward silence, devoid of empathetic emotion, when I suddenly remember. "Oh, I got something for ya." I announce, pulling out the pin from my pants pocket. I stand and fasten it onto his jacket before he can see what it is. He gives me a questioning look upon seeing the golden mockingjay beaming up at him in all of it's sparkling wonder.

"What is it?" He asks, his hooves fiddling with it.

I smirk wryly. "It's a pin."

He returns it with a light chuckle. "I know that, but why are you giving it to me?"

To be honest, I'm not sure why I got it in the first place. I've never had any need for a pin, never once felt the need to buy one before and the same goes for Marty. Finding it better to sugarcoat rather than to flat out explain that I was clueless, I go with the first thing that comes to mind. I say, "This pin will protect you from harm. Keep you safe." I know Marty won't believe me, I don't even believe me. But saying it like it's some kind of magical emblem or enchanted weapon makes the circumstances seem less serial. Like it'll be the key to exiting from this treacherous nightmare; a shrapnel of enlightenment on this dark, foreboding day even if said shrapnel is the illusion that a pin from a black market will protect you from the wrath of a tyrant. It's better than facing reality.

"You seriously don't believe that do you?" He asks me. I shrug my shoulders, grinning at his expression. He too grins knowingly and shakes his head. It's good to see his smile again. They've become rare.

After a good, yet unappetizing breakfast of berries and fish, we leave the house and walk to the reaping. We pass others who hold hands, paws, hooves, whichever. They share glances out of the corners of their fear-stricken eyes, nodding abut never smiling. I guess everybody feels a little closer, especially considering today's events.

The town square is full of people and animals adorn in white dress clothes. The storefronts lining the cobblestone streets are chipped and slightly mangled, but overall in good shape. Yet they are veiled by the lines of Peacekeepers who stand shoulder to shoulder, ushering the people of my district forward. It's a pity the reaping is held in the square. On most days, it's usually packed with merchants shouting their sales, children running around and pressing their round faces into the store windows, women of all ages talking amongst their friends as they shop. And in the springtime, flowers are strung across the lampposts and the fresh scent of daisies dances in the air, the sky a clear, almost pale shade of blue.

Yet today, no one flashes a smile when we pass by. No one talks or greets us even though they have done it everyday before. And really, why would they?

We get in line for the sign in. I stand behind Melman and Marty's behind me. As I wait for my turn, I can practically feel Marty shivering in fear. He hates blood. Hates seeing it, feeling it, even the word makes him green, in the metaphorical sense, of course. It's extremely hard for him when the most serious of injuries are brought to Melman, but he seems to manage. I can only hope he can hang in there for the next 30 seconds.

"Name?" The Peacekeeper asks in a bored tone.

"Alex Lyon," I respond.

That's another thing. We have last names, too. It's not too bad, I guess, but it does make me feel like the Capitol still has us in the palms of their prissy, gloved hand. Controlling us like little pawns in their sick game of chess.

He takes my paw, pricks it, and presses it onto a piece of paper with my name printed in small font, leaving a smudged red dot. Then I watch Marty get checked in.

"Name?"

"M-Marty Stripes." He stutters. I can't help but flinch when he gets his wrist pricked and pressed.

We are then both shoved into a large group of animals and suddenly we lose each other in the vast, moving crowd, swept away like a wave on the ocean and we have no choice but to follow the thick mass of bodies that is the strong current. When we finally stop moving, I scan the majority of heads for Marty's face only to see him all the way on the other side of the square.

He'll be fine, I hope.

On stage, I can see the mayor, a brightly colored woman, and an empty chair. I know of the two people present, but the one and only victor of District 12 is absent. How typical. As if the guy would miss an afternoon of getting drunk.

The anthem plays and the mayor, Mayor Undersee, starts going on and on about the history of Panem, the rules of the Hunger Games, yada yada yada. I never listen to the speech, most of us don't either. We've heard it a million times by now, during other occasions besides the reaping. We usually just stand there in deafening silence for what feels like an eternity. Not gonna lie, I nearly doze off every five minutes.

Then the woman known as Tooth Fairy for obvious and unsaid reasons walks up to the stage wearing her signature flashy dress made of shimmering, emerald green feathers that reach all the way to the tips of her fingers to her tiny toes. A crown of long, elegant feathers adorns her brow and parts of her face like a Mardi Gras mask straight from New Orleans. She gives us a bright, toothy smile that stretches over her face almost painfully. It's way too wide for any means of comfort; practically forced. She flutters her way to the microphone and introduces herself.

"Welcome, welcome, to the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games!" She exclaims in her exciting accent. No one returns her greeting, or they're just not willing. Either way, we just stare back dully. She gives an unsettling chuckle and continues. "I cannot tell you what an honor it is to be up here representing the... unique District 12."

Yeah, we're all so ecstatic about being on the edge of a cliff you and your Capitol forced us on and plummeting down it with a smile on our sorry faces cause that's basically what you're doing!

As you or anyone who even remotely is intact with their common sense have noticed, I am over a little bitter against the Capitol. Yet I guess I have to give her little credit, though. At least she's trying to stay positive. As positive as she or anyone can be.

"Let us move on to the selection of our tributes." Tooth's voice booms into the microphone. "This year, we'll spice things up and start off with the boys. Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor!" She strolls her way over to the large glass bowl on her left and digs her delicate hand inside. She pulls out a slip and oh so aggravatingly slowly, opens it. I clench the hem of my shirt in suspense, claws ripping holes into the fabric.

Please don't say my name. Please don't say my name. Please don't say my name!

I quickly do a 360 and spot Tigress a few yards next to me. She tries pulling a ghost of a smile out of her scowl, but by the thin line of her mouth I can tell she's scared. Just like the rest of us.

Tooth Fairy finally unfolds the paper and announces the name."Marty Stripes."

Author's Note: Sorry, this chapter was a little short. But hey, there's more to come. Keep reading!


	4. Ch 4 I Volunteer

My heart stops beating right then and there, the atmosphere surrounding me suddenly closing in around me as if trying to crush me with an anvil. I legit think I might faint.

No. No no no no no no no no no! It can't be him! Anybody but him! It was one! One in a million!

My vision has gone into a sort of tunnel, hazy and blurred at the edges. But through the funnel of discontortion, I spot a black and white figure walking towards the stage looking absolutely petrified. It's Marty.

No no no no no no no! He can't do it! He wouldn't last one day there!

After all these years of tesserae, starving, hunting, surviving and sacrificing, everything I have worked up to is thrown into the trash and now best-my only friend in the world must pay for my insolence.

Over my goddamn body!

"No, Marty! Marty!" A strangled cry escapes my throat. I run through the crowd, elbowing my way through animals and people. Pushing them aside, even knocking them off their feet. I don't bother to apologize as my arms swipe bodies out of my way. "Marty! No!" I make it to the dirt walkway where I am immediately barreled by a pair of Peacekeepers. They haul me back, blocking me from getting to him. And before I even know it, I say the unthinkable.

"I volunteer! I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" The guards loosen their grip at these words, shocked. Everyone, from the people of the district to the guards lining the streets, gawks at me with utter awestruck. Marty, whose eyes are so wide they look like they'll fall out of his head, stands half turned to me just yards away.

"Well, well, I believe we have a volunteer!" Tooth Fairy exclaims delightfully although her facial expression truly shows just how surprised she is, and not in a good way. Everyone else is at a complete loss for words. Except for Marty, who is screaming at the top of his lungs as he strides to me.

"Alex, what the heck do you think you're doing?!" He grips my shoulders and shakes them, as if to wake me from this so-called nightmare like I had done to him this morning. I wish it was that easy to escape.

Suddenly, I feel dizzy. The world is somehow titling beneath me. My knees threaten to buckle under my weight. I try to focus on the subject at hand.

"Marty, you need to leave. Go with the others." I whisper to him, shoving him away as best as I can, but he isn't listening to me.

"No! You can't go! I won't let you!" He grabs me hard around the waist, not willing to let me leave.

"Marty, let go!" I command. I can't shake him off and making a drastic scene in front of a crowd like this is last thing I need.

Then I watch as someone approaches us from the thick throng of beings. A broad-shouldered tiger with a high arched nose and venomous green eyes stares down at me through furrowed brows. It's Vitaly. Wait, Vitaly?!

Of all things that have happened in the last thirty seconds, I'm more confused by the large tiger's appearance.

He trudges over and peers down at me, cloaking me in his large shadow. Even without saying a word, his actions speak for themselves and thankfully I'm aware enough to see that he means to get Marty out of here. I nod my head in approval. In a flash, he scoops the zebra up and throws him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"No, Alex! No!" Marty cries hysterically, pounding his hooves against Vitaly's back to no avail, but the superior feline just keeps walking.

It's too painful to watch, so I turn away.

Everything is swaying to and fro like a spinning top, and if anything, it's gotten worse. Everyone is upside down, hanging off the floor like bats. I'm not sure if it's just me or if this is for real. Either way, I can't let it distract. Even though I'm 100% sure that I'm going to black out any second.

I tread towards the stage in a sort of daze, trying my best not to stumble or trip at my own expense. I can feel the audience's eyes trained on the back of my head and an intense heat grows behind my eyes. For a second, I think they've found a way to set me on fire, but no. I'm about to cry. I quickly blink oncoming tears away and clench my jaw. This is going to be viewed all over Panem. If I was to cry, I'd be seen as a weakling. An easy target. I will not give the other tributes that satisfaction.

I finish climbing up the stairs and face the crowd.

"Well, hello there!" Tooth Fairy greets, tiptoeing to my side. "I'll bet my feathers that that was your friend. Your best friend in fact!" She asks me in a rather chipper, but fraud voice.

"Yes." I answer flatly. The question doesn't fully process because my brain isn't functioning right, but at least I'm able to answer. I don't look at the life size hummingbird humanoid buzzing at my side. Instead, my gaze slowly grazes last the hordes of animals and humans watching me.

"And what is your name?" Tooth asks into my ear.

"Alex Lyon."

A full minute of silence drifts over the crowd like a summer mist. Although they're practically twirling in my line of sight, I'm still able to witness their faces contort in recognition. Most of them have probably seen my face and heard my name. Alex, the lion with the bow, the guy who hangs around the Hob, and most of all, the guy whose father died in Africa. Yes, most people know about him, mainly because he was the alpha lion in the Pride. Stories are often told to the younger generation to take their minds off of any sorrow or starvation they might be facing. Practically every animal in Africa had respected him and my mom. And now they're all witnessing their long lost and only son knock on Death's door.

"Now, let's move onto the girls." Tooth continues. Out of the corner of my eye, she quickly scuttles to the other large glass bowl and quickly pulls out a name. "Gia Zaragoza!"

Oh no, no no no no no no no no no! Not her. Why her? Of all the girls in District 12, why her?

The unbalanced ground beneath me suddenly halts to a stop, nearly making me take a jarring step back.

That's the name of the girl who had helped me. The girl I am in debt to. The memory plays in my head like a movie.


	5. Ch 5 The Jaguar with the Bread

**Flashback**

It had been a full six months since we'd been dumped into District 12. I was wandering the streets in the pouring rain late at night. I'd been going door to door trying to find a job to provide for us all day.

Mom was in a deep slump; she was heavily depressed over Dad's death. She wouldn't eat or drink for nothing. Just sat on her bed and stared at the wall. Don't get me wrong, I was beyond sorrowful for my dad's death too, but I had buried it deep down. Deep into the pits of my mind and kept moving forward, not allowing myself to be taken into the dark depths of depression. I couldn't allow myself to give into grief, not when there were hungry mouths to feed.

To top it off, Melman hadn't had anyone come in lately. His medical business was still newfound and the worst that we had seen that week was only an infected scraped knee. We had to face it: we were slowly starving to death. So the only way to get food from the market was for the only eligible being in the group to get a job. And as luck would have it, no one would hire me. It had something to do with how they didn't want animals for employees, especially large predators.

I was passing by the bakery when the smell of fresh baked goods filled my nose. I looked over to see orange light filtering through the windows with warmth, a beacon in the gloom of cold rain, making me shiver even harder as drops of water pelted my figure. My stomach stubbornly grumbled under my sodden cloak, making my insides twist in knots.

Oh, what I would do for a single piece of bread, even a crumb would be accepted gratefully. To feel real sustenance fill my belly and fatten my sides and face.

But that wasn't an option. I was not going to go down so low to the point of thievery.

Ok, that wasn't entirely true. Maybe I just wouldn't steal from a merchant, specifically the bakery, because of the consequences? No. The truth is… I didn't want to steal because of _who_ the baker was. Lo and behold, Vitally. The older, intimidating feline wasn't one to be crossed. I heard the guy used to be a circus performer in Europe, infamously known for his hoop tricks and throwing knives. Definitely not a good idea to steal from an expert knife thrower.

As I stood outside the cozy little bakery all alone in the rain with an empty belly and sipping coat of fur, I came to a horrifying realization: there was absolutely no hope for us. With no job, that meant no food, and no food meant no survival. We're doomed to starve.

A sob hitched in my throat and I immediately clamped my hand over my mouth. I was so weak from the lack of nutrients that I had to sit down somewhere and wallow before I collapsed in the street. With sluggish steps, I plopped myself under a nearby tree, my thin legs buckling under my weight. I was soaked to the bone. My fur was wet and cold, dripping with butter rivulets that plopped onto my coat. My teeth chattered loudly as a whimper escaped my snout.

What was I to do? Get back up again and make another round the block to see if any sympathetic souls would offer a job to a sickly thin lion in the pouring rain trying to feed his friends and family? Go back home, empty-handed and give only false hope that I'll try again tomorrow, watch the others' faces fall and go to bed with aching stomachs? I couldn't do it.

An idea wormed its way to my cranium, an idea so preposterous yet so tempting that I heed its call: what if I could catch pneumonia and die right then and there! It wouldn't take much with all of this rain. And it was better than returning home a failure.

Yet behind the fake fantasy of being released from this treacherous world, I knew that it wasn't an option. The others needed me; Gloria, Melman, Marty, even my mom. No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't be selfish and take my life when there were others who were counting on me to keep those lives good and strong.

Tears trickled down my face, but I couldn't tell how much with the heavy downpour. I wrapped my arms around my knees and listened to the bad weather storm on the town.

About a minute later, my ears erected at the squeal of a door opening and I jumped, thinking that it was the baker who would make me run off for loitering, or worse.

Instead, it revealed a young female jaguar exiting the bakery through the side door of the building. I recognized her immediately. She was the adopted daughter of the baker. Speaking of which, I could hear the large tiger yelling something in Russian to her from inside. She replied back and smiled. Tucked in her delicate arms were what I was guessing to be two burnt loaves of bread. She tore off the blackened parts and threw them to the Un-Serum pig.

She was so young and so full of life. Even for a citizen of District 12, she looked healthy and well fed. God! I envied her.

The female turned slightly and her head jerked, snapping her neck at the sight of me. I froze on the spot when our eyes locked. She looked totally horrified to see such a poor, starving lion sitting in the rain just mere feet away from her. I considered running then, to leap up and disappear in a spray of puddles as my paws pounded pavement, leaving her to blink in surprise and forget that she ever saw me. But there was absolutely no strength left in me, no will left to flee. All I could do was stare back at her.

She suddenly looked to the door and back at me, then again. Her head bouncing from side to side as if she were following a ping pong ball. I was so confused about what she was doing that after a full minute of doing this I hardly noticed when she threw the bread up in the air and landed at my feet. She dashed back into the bakery. But I was no longer paying any attention to her because there, right in front of me as if sent from an angel, were two perfect loaves of bread, aside from the charred edges. I thought I was dreaming, but nonetheless snatched them up into my arms and shoved them under my coat. The sudden, scorching heat burned through my fur, but I didn't care, and I definitely wasn't hallucinating.

I ran back to the house with an untold energy and hope back in my step. I burst through the door and presented the bread to the others. Gloria took them and cleaned and sliced them up. Melman was able to get my mom out of bed to eat with us. That night we ate leftover weed salad with fish and bread. And it was good bread too, hearty with grains and oats. It was the first real meal we had had in ages.

The next day, I went out only to find the meadow covered in a thick blanket of bright yellow dandelions, courtesy of the heavy downpour from last night. Marty picked them for dandelion salad while I gathered fish from a nearby pond.

**End of Flashback**

That whole circumstance, in spite of being woeful and depressing, had given me hope, all of us hope, that we could actually make it in the Seam. With every day that passes, I am more and more grateful for the gift that had saved us, that saved me. And even though the jaguar girl had given us the bread out of kindness, I felt in debt to her. And if there's one thing I can't stand, it's being in debt.

And now, nearly three years later, we're going to an arena where only one out of twenty-four of us will get to live. What a happy reunion.

Presently, she walks up to the stage looking completely shell-shocked. Wearing a simple, light blue dress with a royal blue necklace, most likely a valuable heirloom. She has a lean body with flower spots covering her from head to tail and large, chocolate brown eyes. She hasn't changed one bit since the last time I've seen her.

In the distance, I hear someone wailing loudly. I take a quick glance to see the silhouette of a sea lion sobbing against Vitaly. It's the co-owner of the bakery, Stephano. He's been with Vitaly ever since they came to District 12.

Later on within the upcoming weeks, he'll be witnessing Gia, practically his own daughter, either murdered or hopefully become victorious on a screen.

My stomach drops as if I'm on an elevator and suddenly descended a billion floors. When she reaches the stage, her eyes flicker. She remembers me as the lion she tossed the bread to. The lion who is in debt to her.

"Now shake hands, or paws in this case." Effie laughs aloud at her own "joke", if you can even call it that.

We turn to each other and shake. She gives a reassuring squeeze and without any thought, I return it. We look into each other's eyes and nod. A simple understanding, but at the same time so difficult.

We will most likely have to kill each other, or be killed by the other tributes. It's brutal, but it's our life. A cruel reality.

"Let's give a big round of applause for our tributes!" Effie cheers.

For the love of God, please shut up and leave us alone to wrap the idea of us being slaughtered to settle.

No one claps, which is startling. As if.

But then it starts with one, then three, then a dozen, to a hundred. Instead of applauding, the crowd slowly put three fingers to their lips and raise their left arms in the air. In our district, it's a sign of farewell and respect. We don't do it often, usually at funerals or something of the like. A sort of last goodbye.

How reassuring.

The anthem plays again and we're shoved inside the Justice Building with Tooth on our tails, literally.

I've been to the Justice Building for a number of my trades, but I've never been inside before. I'd found out that the mayor had a sweet spot for strawberries. And lucky for me, I had a patch growing right in the Meadow. He always made an all too good of a trade; a thick coat or some cloth for every gallon. But hey! Who was I to complain?

We're separated and told to stay in a room with a single couch and desk. It's quite luxurious, yet plain. We'll get visitors in a few short minutes. I sit down on the sofa to feel the soft fabric beneath me. Red velvet. I haven't felt velvet in a long time. I can't help myself when I allow my paw to run over the soft cushions, hoping that it'll calm me.

In a minute, the door is opened by a Peacekeeper. Marty, Gloria, Melman and my mom practically break down the door once they catch sight of me. In a flash of white and black, Marty zooms in and hugs me so tight I can't breath. I hug him back with the same amount of force, not caring that my lungs are begging for air. Melman and Gloria join in and cling to me, as if hanging on for dear life. The urge to cry has never been more tempting, but I force it down. Now is not the time to weep like a baby. I have to be strong for them. For me.

I realize that without me, they need to do extra chores and errands in order for them to get enough food to get by. I quickly list off what they need to do; keep getting wood for the nights, gather as many edible plants as possible and sell them throughout the trades for a number of supplies, work extra shifts if they need to, get water from the pond, go into town if they require any extra materials. I even give them a few names of people who'd be willing to help. They're to not take any tesserae. I couldn't live with myself if they ever do it. And they promise not to, which is a relief.

"Alex, you have to get to a bow. A knife will be easy, but it's your best chance." Melman insists.

"They don't always have bows though." I say.

"Then make one. Any bow is better than nothing." Gloria counters. I've attempted to make a few bows in the past, all of them being worthless and terrible. But then again, the arena may not even have wood. There were some games where they were in a tundra, a desert, or grasslands.

"I don't even know if there'll be wood." I say.

"There's almost always wood." Melman remarks. True to his word, they usually do have wood. One year, all of the contestants froze to death because there was nothing to fuel their fires. Not much entertainment.

I nod my head in agreement. He looks relieved now that I will have some fleeting chance at winning. Marty then takes me aside with a serious expression pasted on his face.

"You'll try to win, right?" His forest green eyes are pleading and on the verge of tears.

I know I can't win. I know for a fact that I can't. And deep down, he knows it too. Most of the contestants train their entire lives to prepare for this moment. To be the top dogs when chosen for the Hunger Games as if training for the gold medal at the Olympics, only the gold medal is given to only one contestant and said medal is their life. They consider it an honor to win, not so much as suicide. And even though I'm a lion with claws and canines, the others most likely know twenty-three different ways on how to kill any animal. And all I know is how to use the bow and arrow for hunting. It's practically hopeless. But he needs something to hold on to. Something to have faith in. And dammit! I'm going to give it to him.

"I promise I'll try. I really will." I promise.

Marty unclips something from his garb and places it into the pad of my paw, right in the middle of my birthmark.

"Here, it'll protect you and keep you from harm." He smiles weakly.

I look down to find the pin of the golden mockingjay, my gift to my friend. The memory of earlier this morning seems like years ago; decades. I wrap my fingers around the pin and hug him again, knowing that it might be the last of them. I stuff the adornment into my pocket and I finally turn to my mom. Her blue eyes shimmer with tears, the same eyes I have. Yet I grip her by the shoulders hard and look her straight in the eye in all seriousness.

"Listen to me. Are you listening?" I bark out.

She nods, alarmed at my intensity.

"You can't clock out. No matter how much you want to."

Her eyes find the floor as she hears this. "I know. I couldn't help it-"

"Well you have to help it now." I interrupt. "I won't be around to help you guys survive. And no matter what you hear or see on the t.v., you have to promise me that you'll get through it." My voice has risen into a shout.

I was just as upset as her when Dad died, but when my mom couldn't get out of it to help us or even herself, I was angry at her. I resented her, even after she was done grieving. As if some cord between us had snapped, disconnecting me from trust and her from peace. But now I can't be distant with her. This may as well be my last time to ever speak to her again, and I'm not going to waste it on blaming her for mourning. I must salvage what had been broken three years ago in the next three seconds.

I pull her into a tight embrace and press my face into her shoulder. "I love you, Mom." I whisper into her shoulder.

"I love you too, Alakay." She says in a tear-choked voice. She's the only one who ever calls me by my real name.

The Peacekeeper opens the door and pulls everyone out of the room, leaving me alone once again.

My next visitors are two people I don't expect. The bakers, Vitaly and Stephano, with a box of chocolate chip cookies. They sit on either side of me; the sea lion's eyes bloodshot from crying and the tiger's shoulders hunched forward, giving off an air of coldness that forces me to rub my arms as I shiver with chills. All is quiet in the small room before either of them speak.

"Listen-a, Alice." Stephano says, his thick Italian accent causing him to get my name wrong. "We'll-a… keep an eye on-a your family-a. Even-a the young-a zebra." He says awkwardly.

"Thank you." Is all I can manage.

I've known Stephano from my many trades with him, even had a conversation or two. He told me about how he and Vitally met when they were young and were raised as brothers, but he wouldn't tell me much about Gia or what their lives were like before Panem. He and Vitally have been best friends ever since he could remember and they were given the bakery out of sheer dumb luck.

We sit there another quiet moment until Vitaly shoves the box at me forcefully. "Here. Take." He growls lowly. His rough voice is bitter, although it carries a sort of sadness. I take the cookies into my paws and nod my head in respect. I can smell the sweet, warm chocolate and sugar inside wafting through the cardboard.

Vitaly's angry (obviously), paws clenched into fists as if he wants to break something. The cause of his posture makes him all the more dangerous and scary if triggered, like a rabid animal just waiting for a victim to cross its path. I'd act that way too if I was losing someone I loved. Someone who he practically raised and cared for, only to be taken away from him by government officials who only mean to have herbe killed in the end. I almost went through it today when I'd almost lost Marty. Plus, Vitaly isn't too much of a chatterbox.

A minute flies by and they are kicked out.

The door opens yet again and I'm suddenly engulfed in a hug. I squeeze the animal I'm holding, already knowing who it is. I barely have enough time to say anything before Tigress is in my face. Her lips are moving, but no sound comes out. That's strange.

Her eyes frantically travel over my face, paws clasped around my cheeks. Her sharp claws graze through the short ombré of my snout gently, not once threatening to break skin. Her strong, steady hold brings me back to reality.

"Alex, you have to win." She says. She sounds desperate, her voice shaky and slightly hoarse. I have no doubt in my mind that she's hellbent on not crying. I know that feeling all too well.

She already knows, doesn't she? Doesn't she already know that I have just as much of a chance at winning as a snail does winning the Indy 500? She must or else she wouldn't feel the need to urge me to actually win.

"But…" I waver. "I can't. You know au can't. I'm not strong like you. And you've seen the other tributes in recent years. They'll kill me before I can even-"

"No!" She shouts suddenly, interrupting me mid sentence.

I blink in surprise. She's never yelled at me before.

"Do whatever it takes to survive. I've seen you hunt, gather, everything. You can make it with the right tools, but you cannot risk getting killed!" She looks into my eyes. Her usual hard stare she casually wears has disappeared. Soft, tender flecks of fear have replaced her facade.

I have never seen her like this before.

She leans in until our mouths are nearly touching.

"You have to win." She breathes out, her breath hot against my fur. She isn't willing to hide a grave expression. I can practically see a thin line of water collect in her eyes.

"But I can't win!" I say with a definitive bite, pushing her away so that I can see her fully. "You know damn well that I can't win. And inspirational speeches, hugs or kisses are gonna change that and you know it! So stop with all this fortune cookie muck and face the fact that I'm going to die just like every sorry sap of a tribute that has ever crawled out of this hellhole and there's nothing you or anyone for that matter can do about it!" I scream out, feeling much too hot and much too angry.

It takes Tigress a moment to speak up again but not much longer for me to realize just how much of an asshole I just sounded like.

Goddammit! Will I ever learn to shut my mouth for once?!

"You're all I have left." She whispers.

I stop short, completely unprepared for such a sentiment.

Tigress steps forward with small yet purposeful steps until her nose just grazes the small gifts of fur lining my chin.

"I've lost everyone I've ever known and loved." She hushes, reaching her arms up to place her paws on their previous position tenderly clutching on my cheeks, slowly bowing our heads and pressing our foreheads together. Her eyes close shut, her paws shuddering as she holds me. "I can't lose you, too."

This motion of hers isn't quite uncommon for us. In fact, everyone in District 12 does this as a sign of love, mostly in very good friendships to represent the utmost gratitude felt between the two companions. It couldn't be any more appropriate than right now in this moment.

I eventually close my eyes too, taking in the scent of sweet and cookies while darkness swirls behind the back of my eyelids.

Tigress is the strongest person I know. Hardcore, stubborn, and an amazing fighter. Walking around with a scowl plastered on her face that would make any large male run away with his tail between his legs, and only smiles at the children's center. Most would describe her as harsh and silent, aggressive at some points. But I know better. And although she'll never admit it, she's the most caring animal in all of District 12.

I ponder this as we hold each other. If Tigress is all of those things and more and she believes that I can win, then maybe I actually can. And yeah, maybe she's only saying these things to motivate me to make the best of my efforts in the arena last and hopefully ensure me coming out in one, very much alive piece, or maybe even she's even saying all this to delude herself that the one and only person in her life that she considers a close friend is going to travel across the country and be murdered on television. It doesn't matter. What matters now is that Tigress, the hardcore ex-Kung Fu warrior who just so happens to be my newfound best friend, is holding me and that's enough.

We know our time is up when a Peacekeeper yanks us apart. We scramble to grab one another again, both of us not wanting whatever this is to end.

"Don't let them starve." I call after her when they're halfway through the door.

"I won't." She hurriedly answers. "Alex, there's something I have to tell you. I-" The door slams in her face before she finishes and I rush forward, pounding my fist against the hard wood in a desperate attempt to hear Tigress' last words. But when I press my ear to the flat grain, all that there's to be heard is silence. I'll never know what she was going to say.

After that, I have no more guests and we leave the building.

Author's Note: Sorry for yet another stupidly long chapter. Hope you liked it, tho


	6. Ch 6 I Think His Name is Gobber

When we are ushered into a car, I take the opportunity to examine Gia. She has obviously been crying and doesn't seem to care who sees her.

I wonder if it's part of her strategy; to seem like a weak contestant and the others not bothering to deal with her until the very end when there is only a handful. Then it turns out that she is a vicious killer. This has happened on a number of occasions, the most famous being a young raccoon about a decade ago.

Yet she has physique; a sturdy, but lean body. Strong, maybe even flexible. Years of eating well has her in good shape. It will take an awful lot of weeping to make them see her as a sniveling coward.

And as a bonus, I was right not to cry because as soon as we pull up, cameras are shoved into our faces. I've learned not to show any emotions in the last few years, courtesy of Tigress, and thank goodness because they are literally devouring our pictures. All of that hard work has finally paid off.

The train station in District 12 is normally used to transport coal to other districts in old, grimy trains. But when we get there, the train we are led to is a slick, white bullet train. The windows tinted to a pitch black and the metal is polished spotless. It's like it had been just made and brought here fresh from the factory.

We climb aboard and the train moves forward, away from the place I was enslaved to.

The interior is absolutely magnificent. It contains furniture that twists at odd angles accompanied with the richest and brightest shades of pink and green I have ever seen. The chandeliers surrounded by exquisite crystals carved in the shapes of graceful swans and angels. The plush carpet is the color of blackberries, and there are a number of treats and decorations littering the car. The walls a shining silver, reflecting our figures in warbled waves.

We are directed to different rooms where we will prepare for dinner in an hour. My room is large and spacious with a big, king-sized bed. It could probably hold an entire herd of zebras.

I decide to take a shower to wash away today's events. The shower itself is a lot more complicated than it looks with a large variety of devices and buttons for different controls. I mash them all for the heck of it. It scrubs me down in a yellow foam that literally gets every speck of dirt out of my fur, leaving it gleaming. I get a shampoo and conditioner that smells like peaches and cologne.

Not a bad combination, by the way.

The water is so hot and soothing, it's the most blissful thing I have felt in years. Like liquid pleasure pouring over my skinny, ragged body. And when I step out, I am blow dried by an air vent from underneath my hind paws. It reminds me of the blow dryers the zookeepers used for me back in New York. Multiple men and women whistling to a certain key and blasting hot air at all angles. That's nothing compared to the whirlwind beneath me.

I get dressed and find a dark blue sweater with a pair of comfortable denim jeans. I remember to put the pin back onto my shirt before I can forget.

I look in the mirror and my eyes widen at the sight. In the mirror, staring back at me, is a lion with a glossy, handsome mane and soft, golden fur who looks at me with bright blue eyes. It follows my every movement, perfectly matching me. But it doesn't feel like it's me.

I have forgotten what it was like to be so clean and...civil looking, if you can call it that. The Alex now is the lion who hunts in the woods and provides food for his friends and family, who had lost his father, and is now a tribute of the Hunger Games. This is not the Alex, the King of New York, I know from the zoo.

I hear knocking coming from the other side of the room that snaps me out of my thoughts.

"It's time for dinner, Alex!" Tooth Fairy yells through the door.

"Ok." I open the door and follow the lady to the dining car where Gia is probably already eating.

Walking behind Tooth, I inspect the large wings attached to her back. Long and slender, like a giant hummingbird. They flutter in a blur before my very eyes.

Many people in the Capitol do a bunch of surgeries and implants to look more "stylish". Horns, fangs, dyed pigments, and so much more horrific attributes. But the woman's look completely natural, which I find very odd.

We enter the next car and, as predicted, Gia sits at a wide table. She wears a spring green dress with a golden waist band. Her necklace is still hangs around her neck.

Covering the said table is a huge assortment of food; a beef stew with black and white rice, a large turkey overflowing with stuffing and gravy, a salad with multicolored vegetables and vinaigrettes. This could feed an entire family for months to come, and I should know.

On full out hunger, I fill my plate to the brim and stuff my face with food. It's warm and tender contents practically melting in my mouth. I have never tasted anything so delicious in all my life. Then dessert is to die for. A tall chocolate cake topped with thick cream cheese frosting along with tarts and a fruit bowl.

"I'm surprised at how well mannered you two are. Last year's contestants ate like a bunch of animals." Tooth Fairy chirps up.

The irony.

I may be a lion, but I know how to eat properly. I can handle a fork, knife optional. And from the looks of it, Gia does, too. But I hate her comment, so I use my paws to finish the cake, licking frosting off with my tongue. I even lick the plates clean.

This results in Tooth giving me a look of disgust. Her pointed nose wrinkled, but she can't hide the crack of a smile that plays on her lips.

Then a door suddenly bursts open with a loud bang to reveal a drunken man. He is swaying from side to side as if the ground beneath him is unbalanced. He carries a half empty bottle of white liquor in his hand. I notice how he's limping and recognize that he has a peg for a leg and a wooden mallet for a hand. Must've happened in battle. He has ratty blond hair and an almost impossibly long mustache resting over his incredible underbite. Ties of leather and brown cloth course through it. His clothes are stained and unkept.

It's Gobber, the one and only victor in all of District 12. He won the fiftieth Hunger Games where instead of twenty four tributes, there were forty eight. Since then, he has been the mentor for all the District 12 tributes for the past twenty five years.

In all honesty, I think he is the main reason why we haven't won. Always drunk, making a fool of himself and our district. No wonder why we haven't had any other victors.

And here I am, about to put my life into the hands, or hand and hammer, of a tipsy man.

He clumsily sits at the table and starts to spread butter on a roll. Gia leans forward and rests her elbows on the table.

"So what's the plan?" She asks. I notice that her voice has an Italian accent to it, not quite as thick as Stephano's. It's the first time I have ever heard her speak, at least in English.

Gobber looks up from his task with lazy grey eyes.

"Wha'?" He asks in return, his voice slurred due to the alcohol. But I'm able to catch his thick accent, although I can't place it.

"What's the plan for when we get inside the arena? What's our strategy? Do you have any advice?" She asks again, looking expectant.

I am more or less surprised that she even asked because I know he won't give a straight answer. His mind isn't on the best terms and his thoughts are most likely too muddled to take this seriously.

He mulls over the thought and leans back in his chair.

"Hmmm. 'Ere's some advice...Don' die!" His mouth breaks into a maniacal smile and he howls in laughter at his own joke. The jaguar's face contorts in anger as her black ears flatten against her skull.

She obviously doesn't find it very funny. Tooth only scoffs at his actions and takes a bite of her salad.

"That's not funny." Gia hisses. "Our lives are on the line and you're sitting here laughing it up as if it is some kind of sick joke!" Gia suddenly shouts.

Her sudden outburst puts an end to his laughing fit. He grows suspiciously silent. His eyes become as hard as stones and he slowly gets up. He leans over the table to get right in our faces. His inches away, breath reeking. We both lean back in our own chairs.

"Listen 'ere and listen good. Ye aren' goin to win. Yer 'ave as much o' a chance a' winning as I do wi- attemptin to stop drinkin. Yer two are a los' cause." He harshly whispers through his crooked teeth. He stands again, grabs his bottle and another one of brandy with his roll, and heads for the door. Only to turn back and forth, dumbfounded of where he's going.

But before he can decide, Gia stands and marches right up into his face and snatches the bottles right out of his hand. She slams them onto the table, the impact rattling the dishes, and turns back to him.

I feel a sudden shift in the room, something bad. Out of instinct, I reach for a cutting knife from dinner.

Gobber's expression is blank, until he suddenly lunges towards the jaguar and attempts to grab her neck. Tooth shrieks behind me as I jump and push him away with a swipe of my arm, holding the knife in front of me like a weapon. He stumbles back, more than I expected, and looks at us with disbelief. He seems to realize what just happened and then begins to think. Stroking the thick stubble on his chin with a meaty hand. His eyes flick to and fro underneath his bushy unibrow. I can practically see the gears turning in his head. Then his laid back expression returns.

"Did I ge' a couple o' fighters this yea'?" He studies us for a moment, contemplating our actions. He reluctantly walks over to the table and picks up another knife and hands it to me.

"Throw i'."

"What?" I ask.

"Throw i'." He gestures to the wall. I didn't expect him to order me that in the least, but I oblige.

"Gobber, what the heck do you think you're doing?" Tooth demands. She's flying right up to him, a full foot in the air. She glares down at him for an answer, but is simply waved off.

I get comfortable with the grip of the blade and chuck it at the wall. It sails through the air hits home. It embeds itself at least a few inches and is dead center between two wooden panels.

"Again." He barks. I do, and it lands right next to the other knife. Robin Hood style.

While Tigress and I would wait for prey to come along in the woods, we would spend our time throwing knives. We thought that it would be good if we were able to protect ourselves better and learn a new skill for the future, if one of us were to be picked for the Games. And get this, I'm pretty good at it.

Gobber, Gia, and Tooth raise their eyebrows in surprise.

To be fully honest, I wasn't expecting the hit to be that good. But hey, practice makes perfect, I guess.

"Impressive." The drunk man replies finally.


	7. Ch 7 Life's a Box of Cookies

Gobber turns to Gia and gives her a quick up and down.

"Stand over 'ere. Both o' ye." He demands us. We both obey again, but give each other a quick glance, sharing our confusion with Gobber's new interest. We stand side by side as the man circles us, all the while poking at us, squeezing our muscles, checking our faces.

I feel like a piece of merchandise that's on sale. Disposable and cheap.

"Well, yer both fit, that's good. And yer not ugly, but once the stylists ge' a hold of ye, yer'll look decent enou'." He says after he's done circling.

Wow. The guy can really make you feel special.

"Then what?" I ask.

"Then I'll figure ou' wha' to do wit' ye two." He says.

My mind reels at his change of attitude. Not barely five minutes ago he was acting like a drunk who didn't give a damn about anything. But now he looks at us like we might actually have a chance. The idea makes me smile inwardly.

"But there's a catch." He says pointing a finger at us.

Well, should've seen that one coming.

"If yer don't mess wit my drinkin, then I'll stay sober enou' to help yer." He says with a crooked grin. "Got i'?" He adds. We both nod our heads in a agreement. He reaches over and grabs the bottles once again and heads out the door he came through. Gia and I stand there in silence for an awkwardly long time, neither of us sure what to do next.

"Well, that was invigorating." Tooth speaks up with her hands on her hips. She looks and sounds just as confused and shocked as us.

Later on, we decide to watch the reaping recaps. We find our way to a living area with a giant tv suspended in mid air. We watch one by one the different tributes that step up to the stage. District 1, District 2, and so on.

I keep in mind the ones that will most likely be the most dangerous and threatening. A monster of a man from District 1 steps up, practically overflowing with pride. He wears a smug grin that for some strange reason makes me feel anger at the sight. A fox girl from District 3 with mischievous eyes and a sleek, blazing coat of red fur. A boy from District 8 with a bad leg. Tribute after tribute, child after child. They all walk, or stumble, up the staircase. Some nearly brawl for the spotlight in the higher districts. Others, not so much.

Fire suddenly ignites in my chest when a small girl is called up the stage for District 11. She has brown skin and amazing green eyes that are partly hidden behind a curtain of short, curly hair. She can't be older than twelve.

In most districts, or so were told, it's considered unfair that a mere child is forced to go through this torture. But rules are rules, and there's nothing we can do about it.

Then we watch our own district. Marty being called, me running up and volunteering. I look mortified, but determined.

Thank goodness. I have give myself some credit for that, right?

Then Gia appears looking as scared as ever. The anthem plays and the program ends.

Afterwards, we go our separate ways and I enter my room. My eyes find the small box of cookies that I was given. Such a delicacy would be treasured in our house, back in District 12.

District 12? It's strange to think that I actually miss the wretched place I had called home.

I guess it's not because of where it's located, but the people inside. The Peacekeepers, the traders at the Hob, my family and friends.

I wonder what they're doing right now?Most likely sitting in our sorry excuse of a house with the old, battered shutters drawn in tight. All of the house lights must be off to conserve as much energy as possible.

Did they eat the food brought in this morning or did it remain on their plates, untouched and unwanted? Did they too watch the recaps and watch today's events? Marty, Gloria, Melman, my mom. They all must be worried sick, scared silly. I can't even imagine what they're going through.

And what of Gia and her family? From what little encounters I have had with the exotic cat, I've learned quite a bit; She's kind, polite, headstrong-

Oh no! No! I can't think of her that way. People like Gia are dangerous. They have a way of worming their way into your heads, forcing you to think of them as if they would never hurt a fly. Gia is my enemy, not my friend. Her actions will determine how I think of her and what will happen to us in the arena.

I snatch the box of cookies off the bed and fling it across the room. The contents burst on impact, spilling bits of cardboard and cookie all over the floor.

Whether I had done it out of anger or irrationality, I couldn't tell you even if I wanted to.

Without even changing, I crawl under the thick blanket of my bed and settle in for the night. My bed back in District 12 is a joke compared to this bad boy. Winning by a landslide. The comforter is thick and fluffy, as if I were sleeping on clouds. My head sinks into the pillow, enveloping my cranium in a comforting warmth.

If there was ever a time cry my eyes out, now would be it. But no tears come. My tear ducts are as dry as a desert. And trust me when I say I want to cry. I wanted to bawl and howl with snot and all of that jazz. I want to cry till I make myself sick. I want to cry till I fall asleep.

But my wish does not come true. So instead I close my eyes and lay there in silence.

I end up fidgeting with the mockingjay pin clipped to my shirt. The smooth edges and cold chill of medal calms me till ever so slowly, I drift into a deep sleep.


	8. Ch 8 Frightening Smiles

I rouse to the constant rapping of knuckles on wood.

"Up up up, we have a lot to go over and not a lot of time to do it." Tooth shouts from behind the wood.

"Oh ok." I call distantly. I instead grab the nearest pillow and slam it over my face.

"Oh gosh, why am I so tired?" I ask mentally. I'm usually more of a morning person, always up before the others.

Off and on occasion, I would wake up hours before dawn. Owls hooting in the dark and the distant croak of a toad could be heard by the pond. A few pin pricks of light would shine through the mystic night sky. Stars.

I cherished those sweet moments alone. All of that silence and tranquility all to myself. Those were the only times I had ever felt truly happy in the last three years.

I guess I nodded off again because I jarr awake at Tooth's pounding.

"Alright, I'm up!" I shout as I prop myself onto an elbow. I hear the flutter of wings drift away from the door and I plop back onto the plush mattress.

I lay there for a few minutes. In the back of my head, I was hoping that all of it had been just been a bad dream. The reaping, me volunteering, the whole enchilada. I rub my eyes and blow air through my cheeks.

"Well, it can't get any worse from here." I think to myself. I reluctantly flip the warm comforter off and shuffle to the closet.

I distinctly remember grabbing an outfit, but it's hard to say since I am still half asleep. But I find myself in a t-shirt and sweats however many minutes later.

The mess I made last night of cookies still lays on the carpet. The bits are probably dry and old, the box split open in multiple directions. I don't dare to clean it up.

The scent of something cooking brings me to the present. I jog to the dining car when my stomach rumbles loudly.

The others are there. Gia is already on her second helping, Tooth is sipping on a cup of coffee, and Gobber takes a swig every few seconds from a tin flask. From the fumes, it's a spirit.

I can't pull up a memory of him without liquor. Before the Hunger Games, he might've been more subtle. But I was even born then so I'll never truly know. He is a constant visitor of the Hobb, throwing away coins at any stand selling beer bottles or whiskey.

I take my seat and make a plate. Scrambled eggs, sausage links, fried potatoes, and bacon sit in hot serving trays. Glass pitchers of orange juice are served along with a steaming kettle. I pour myself some and a brown liquid swims in my cup.

"It's called hot chocolate." Gia says when she notices my quizzical look.

Of course I know what hot chocolate is. I mean, who doesn't?

Back at the zoo, the other's and I would sneak into the employees' room after hours and scavenge for little treats. Candy, soda, chips. And in winter, we would drink hot chocolate from foam cups and watch the snowfall in Central Park.

Back then, life was simple. Performing on stage, being pampered, drinking hot chocolate almost every night, and not a single care in the world ever invaded our conscious. Like a fairy tale.

What a twisted happy ending it turned out to be, huh?

I take a cautious sip and sweet, creamy goodness floods my mouth. I can almost feel the snowflakes softly landing on my nose and the bitter chill of December.

I wolf down breakfast until I'm convinced that my stomach will burst any second. I pat my stomach in satisfaction.

"So, Gobber." I say. He eyes me as he takes yet another gulp of his alcohol.

"You said you'd help us, right?" I ask. He gives the slightest of nods and I let my thoughts ramble out.

"When we get to the arena, what's the best thing to do at the Cornucopia? Stay and fight for supplies? Run to stay out of it? Or- "

"Whoa, whoa, whoa 'ere." Gobber suddenly interrupts, raising his hands to stop my talking. "Slow down 'ere a bit. We haven' even reached the Capitol ye'."

I blink. The clinking of silverware against plates stops.

"Wait but-"

"Shut it!" Gobber barks. I shut my mouth and stare at him expectantly. If he's gonna turn into the Gobber from yesterday, we're gonna have a problem.

"Liste', in a few minutes we'll be arrivin' a' the Capitol. Yer'll be handed ove' to the stylists. An' trust me 'ere, yer not goin' to like wha' happens to yer in the leas'. But wha'ever they do to yer, do no' resis'.

"What if-" I try to ask.

"No." Gobber interrupts.

"But-

"Nope."

"Wh-"

"NO! Yer will do as I say an' witout question. Go' i'?" He says, stabbing a finger at my chest on "got it".

I groan as I cross my arms, leaning back in my chair and pouting.

Gia nods her head vigorously, but I remain still. I can feel Gobber's gaze on me, staring daggers at my head. I don't flinch for a second.,

Suddenly, night falls. The outside of the train is plunged in darkness, pitch black against the warm glow of the dining car. I rush to the window, Gia by my side and watch in bewilderment.

We must be in the tunnel that runs through the Rocky Mountains. The Capitol was built on one side of the mountain range and the rest of us on the other.

I've heard stories of the war where the districts attempted to rebel against the Capitol. The people of the districts were clearly unprepared for the attacks that followed. When we tried to get over the mountain, officially known as Pikes Peak, we were sitting ducks for the bombs that destroyed our aircrafts and soldiers. And trying to get inside through the tunnels is nearly impossible. We were easily defeated.

The miles of rock above my head separating me from the open spaces of the sky makes my chest tighten.

I am not unfamiliar with being underground. The new arrivals of District 12 were forced to tour the mines to give us a sort of view of our future. In a year or so, I was supposedly going to start working in the coal mines. But now, I'm not ever going to work there now. I would at least be glad about that if it weren't for the greater, more bloody death I will receive.

A flash of blinding white light shines through the inky blackness and I shield my eyes until they adjust to the new environment.

Outside, a whole new world thrives in the heart of Panem. I can't help but marvel at the grandeur of the bright city before me. The television programs had shown us tidbits of the city, never fully capturing its beauty; Skyscrapers reach to the sky, shimmering and twinkling in the sun like crystals. Strange, shiny vehicles wind through the wide, perfect asphalt. People mill around on the sidewalk in the most bizarre outfits I have ever seen. Hair as tall as a giraffe or as wide as an elephant. Glittering fabrics in all too artificial colors; hot pink, neon yellows, radioactive blues. Faces with so much paint they could put a circus clown to shame.

A crowd has gathered at the train station, awaiting for our arrival with eager enthusiasm.

I back away from them, their colorful faces and all too wide smiles freaking the heck out of me. But Gia stays in place, waving at the crowd with a smile forming on her short snout. She looks back at me.

"What? One of them might be rich."

My forehead jumps to my scalp. Gobber comes up behind me and pats a wooden hand on my back.

"Ye could learn a thin' or two from her." He says and hobbles off.

It appears that he is right. Gia is stepping up her game by winning over the crowd with a loving appearance. Her strategy of being an innocent, nice girl from a pitiful town will not overthrow the other tributes' chances, but it'll give Gia the upper hand. This'll help her gain sponsors and other resources for the Games. I have underestimated the jaguar. I'm assuming that she is forming a plan to survive. Which also means a plan to kill me.

Unlike me, she has not given up. Gia Zaragoza, the feline I am in debt to, is fighting for her life.


	9. Ch 9 The Opening Ceremony

_Snip Snip Snip_

Tufts of gold fur fall away at every snip of the scissors. A small pile gradually grows on the ground.

"You have such a marvelous mane. So big, so natural. It's like a miniature sun." Venia comments, her aqua blue hair and gold tattoos gleam in the fluorescent lights.

After our entry in the Capitol, we had been shoved into the Remake Center. I was introduced to my prep team and they set to work immediately. Stripping me from any garments of clothing, the trio washed and cleaned pretty much anything and every little thing on my body.

Some of the treatments were painful, too. A gritty solution lathered over my chest and stomach that, I'm pretty sure, grinded away half of my body mass. And I don't have a lot of that on me.

Many more practices were performed that I'm not willing to share now, and probably not for a long while. A _really_ long while.

At least my fur now shines like polished bronze, and I feel brand new.

At the moment, they are redoing my mane by getting rid of the pesky little split ends. Venia's words, not mine.

"And the shape is so thorough. Your mane is definitely the healthiest I have ever seen." Octavia, a plump woman with skin the color of pea soup, says happily.

"If only we could dye it. We could experiment with so many different colors." Flavius pouts loudly. His orange corkscrew curls bouncing to his every step.

"Now now," Octavia says as she taps his shoulder. "We have to obey Big M's orders." They nod in agreement, flashing in a rainbow of skin and hair.

"Who's Big M?" I ask out of sheer curiosity.

"That's just his nickname. His real name is Megamind." Flavius says matter of factly.

"He's your stylist." Venia answers for me and snaps the scissors one last time.

"What kind of name is Megamind?" I ask, not out loud of course because I'm trying to be nice.

My prep team have to be the silliest, most idiotic people anyone could ever meet. They can talk about literally anything and make it sound like such a big deal in their pathetic lives. I listened to them chat about what style of shoe they should wear in the afternoon for a whole hour and fifteen minutes.

Yes, I counted the time. But the only thing I got out of it was just how insignificant they were. And that four-inch pump heels are in style this season.

But they're trying to be polite, but failing miserably.

Octavia snatches the grey sheet of fabric away from my neck and they all step back to admire their work.

"Excellent! You look like an overgrown, fluffy kitten." Flavius says and they all giggle like a bunch of school girls. I force the corners of my mouth up into what has to be either a smile or a grimace.

"Thank you." I say through gritted teeth.

Whether they notice it, which is highly doubtful, or not, they all smile in acknowledgement.

They usher each other out of the room and I am left alone.

My robe lays on a nearby chair, but I don't think to put it back on. I've spent my whole life without any clothes and I'm not about to feel embarrassed about it now.

In a few short minutes, a man enters the room. I stare at him despite my manners. His skin is blue, and not just any normal shade of blue. A glowing, hazardous hue that threatens to give me a headache. Like some strange chemical in a science lab. His thin body is covered in shining black leather. Leather cape, leather boots, leather everything, studded with metal spikes. Wide, intelligent green eyes dance with excitement in his sockets.

But the most bizarre quality about him is the giant cranium sitting on top of his neck. Not a single hair sprouts from the wide scalp aside from the small goatee perfectly shaved on his narrow chin and straight eyebrows on his massive forehead. He smiles at me.

"Hello Alex. I am Megamind, your stylist." He thrusts out a gloved hand I cautiously take it.

"Hello." I venture.

"I'll need a minute, is that alright with you?" He begins to circle me before I can answer. His shoes give the slightest of squeaks with each step he takes. Placing a single finger on his chin, he takes in every single inch of my naked body. I watch him like a hawk uneasily.

Despite his bold, unique features, he lacks the air of flamboyance that most people appear to have in the Capitol. Stuck up, snobby, spoiled, all of that crap. Instead, he is more or less calm. Not as extreme in his speech or actions.

"Are you new or something?" I ask suddenly.

Gobber had given me direct instructions to not resist whatever my stylists did to me, no matter how horrific they were.

That part was over. A rebellious urge had made those words flow out of my mouth. Sitting still for so long listening to a bunch of blubbering idiots talk about nonsense made steam blow out of my ears. Hopefully, not literally.

Do I regret it? No, no I do not.

"Why do you ask?" Megamind requests distantly. His full attention fully locked onto the tall mass of hair on my head known as my mane.

"Why is everyone so captivated by my mane?!" I think to myself, frustrated.

"Because you look a little young to be a professional stylist. Plus, I've never seen you before." I answer.

Most stylists are constant returnees in the ever changing pool of tributes. I've heard of some who've been around for decades.

"You are correct. I am, in fact, new. This is my very first Hunger Games." He says as he finishes his round of inspection.

"Got stuck with us, huh?" I say, a hint of bitterness on my tongue.

Newcomers in the Capitol have the privilege of receiving the caboose of the long train of districts to design. The least desirable district of all Panem; little District 12.

"Actually, I chose District 12." He says without any explanation. "Why don't you put on your robe and we can eat."

Putting aside my pride, I do as he asks and follow him out into a wide sitting room where two luxurious red couches face off. A low, white metal slab of a table rests in between. Three walls are black and blank, but the last one is entirely made up of glass. From here, a full ten stories up, I can see the entire Capitol. The pointed tops of the buildings reaching towards the sky like bedazzled outstretched limbs.

Megamind takes a seat on one couch and I sit on the opposite side. He presses a button on the leg of the table and the middle splits open to reveal a steaming tray of food.

I blink once. I blink twice.

A large bowl filled with pale noodles is placed next to another full of savory red sauce. Slices of toasted bread smeared in garlic and cheese waft under the scent of pasta.

Never before had a meal like this appeared before me in such speed.

Well, not exactly the first. The first in a couple of years, yes. But back then... it was like magic.

Everyday, I would wake up and a plate of steak would lay in front of me. Same with lunch, and dinner. I knew it was the zookeepers who had brought it to me, but I never questioned how they did it so fast. I guess I was too occupied with my "performance".

Looking at the large proportions of Italian food, I realize just how easy I had it back in New York and the people of the Capitol have it now. To have anything you want pop up right in front of you at the touch of a button. No need to worry about the next meal because you know for certain that it'll be there.

And to think that I used to spend my days prancing around and roaring in front of a crowd for publicity. I was no better than these people I now despise.

Dancing? When was the last time danced? Three years ago?

I'm not saying that I don't like dancing anymore, I still do. It's just that now I have no time for it. Hunting and gathering in the woods, then trading it at the Hob takes up too much time for me to even think about dancing.

What do these people do for a living?

The Capitol's residents do not have to slave their lives away working for the upper class. And aside from watching the Hunger Games, what do they do for entertainment? Talk about shoes and play dress up?

I glance up to find Megamind's radiant eyes trained on me.

"How despicable we must look to you." He says as he pours tomato sauce over his stringy noodles.

What makes him say that? The fact that their leader forces the poor people of the districts to work tooth and nail to provide for the petty lot of the Capitol?!

Where's the badge, Big M? Because you must be a detective.

"No matter," says Megamind. "So, Alex, for your outfit in this year's opening ceremony, my partner  
Minion and I have put together something a little different. As you know, it's customary to reflect your district's role in Panem."

Being the coal district, we have a limited amount of materials for our get ups in the opening ceremony. Stiff work jumpsuits with rusty helmets are usually worn. Or even worse, they are don in nothing but coal dust.

"So we've been thinking, and the coal miner thing is a way overdone. No one will remember you or your partner in that. And this year, I want you to be unforgettable."

"I'll be shaved for sure." I think.

It is also commonly known that some animals pulled into the Remake Center come out completely different. Some are dyed like Easter eggs, tattooed, or better yet, shaved.

I cringe at the thought. A lion bare of any fur is not a pretty sight. I know that for a fact.

"So instead of focusing on the coal mining, we are going to focus on the coal itself."

I'm going to be shaved like a naked mole rat.

"And what do we do with coal?" He says, pausing for a dramatic effect. "We burn it!"

Blue Man say what now?

"You're not a afraid of fire, are you?" He asks mischievously when he sees my expression.

A few hours later, I am relieved to say that I still have my coat of fur still attached to my body.

Thank goodness.

Yet, I am dressed in what has to be the greatest costume in all of the Games combined, or the most deadly.

I wear a simple unitard the color of ink, reaching from my neck to the joints of my ankles. A large, billowing cape trails behind me, streaming with orange, red, and yellow.

Megamind is going to light it on fire.

"It's not real fire. Just some synthetic fire Minion and I created. It's perfectly safe." Megamind says.

Minion, I learned, is a talking fish with a huge robot body that vaguely reminds me of a gorilla's. For a strange little creature, he is incredibly smart and humble.

But I am not one who is easily convinced by their words. Especially with the possibility of being barbecued being highly probable.

I have never worn makeup in my entire life. At the moment, gold powder is intricately spread across the bridge of my nose and the hollow of my cheeks. My eyes are lined with something black that makes my azure orbs pop out. My mane is coated in a temporary chalk. Near my face, a deep maroon fades to a fire engine red, to blood orange, to buttercup yellow.

Nothing much, that's what Megamind told me. Coming from a guy with blue skin and wears more black than a famous rock band.

"I want the audience to remember you in the arena. Alex, the Lion of Fire." He says dreamily.

Now I'm pretty sure that my stylist is a little bit crazy.

I've heard of the story of the Lion of Fire, or more commonly known as the Lion of Judah. It is mentioned in a few books in the Bible, both New and Old Testament. I am not very religious, but a number of people are in the Seam.

Now I wish I had paid a little more attention to them.

When I see Gia show up, I actually feel a little relieved to see her. Despite my little deal in my head to not trust her. She is dressed in the same outfit I am in. Her numerous spots are expertly caked to a pitch black, her features sharper and her eyes aglow. Something about her looks different, and it's not the clothes or makeup. It's her posture; her back is straighter and her head is titled up. She looks confident.

Being the daughter of a baker, the jaguar must know quite a bit about fire. So I should be safe.

All of the members of the prep team and stylists are all giddy with excitement over what a huge hit we'll be.

Except for Megamind. He seems a little annoyed with their enthusiasm.

Who wouldn't be? They all sound like a bunch squawking birds.

We are whisked away to the bottom level of the Remake Center, which is actually a horse stable. Pairs of tributes are already present, sitting in their carts with two horses to pull them along. Ours are the color of lumps of coal. The animals are so well trained, that there is no need for anyone to steer the reigns.

We are escorted to our chariot and Minion and Megamind stay to fix our positions, fiddle with our capes, making sure everything is absolutely perfect.

"What do you think about the fire?" Gia whispers to me.

"I'm not exactly planning on dying just yet, so I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine." I say back quietly.

"Deal" She says after what has to be small giggle. I can't help but chuckle. My nerves are going completely haywire, causing my paws to shake as I grip the edge of the chariot. My heart beating so hard I think that it'll burst out of my chest.

You'd be just as nervous as I am if you were most likely about to roasted into an overgrown turkey.

Loud trumpets suddenly sound off and a pair of tall gates slide open. The ride will last about twenty minutes as we go through the crowded streets of the Capitol. Each one lined with colorful people cheering on their favorites.

The District 1 chariot, gold with pure white stallions, rolls out of the stable and the chorus of clapping begins.

Then District 2, 3, 4, and so on.

Megamind comes by once again and taps our chins up.

"Remember. Heads high. Smile. They're going to love you!" He says. He hops down and Minion hands him a lightened torch. And before we can act, he lays the torch on our backs.

I gasp, waiting for the searing heat of the fire. A sign that the flames are actually real. But nothing comes. Just a strange tingling sensation, like the feeling one gets when their foot falls asleep.

"It works!" Megamind says after a sigh of relief.

"Was it not supposed to?" I call over my shoulder sarcastically, but he doesn't catch it as another round of applause erupts from the crowd outside.

Minion's scaly mouth is moving, but no sound registers.

"What did he say?" I shout to Gia.

"I think he said to hold paws." She yells back. I realize that ablaze with this fake fire, she is dazzling. I must be, too.

We do as we're told, rather awkwardly, and the two give us each a thumbs up. The horses trot forward and we pass through the massive gates.

The crowd goes wild. Clapping, screaming, cheering. A giant blur of mix matched neons. They create a rainbow ocean, glittering like hundreds of jewels bathing in the sun's light. Every head turns our way, drawing away from the three chariots ahead of us.

At first, I'm as frozen as an icicle in Antarctica. But then I catch something out of the corner of my eye. A large television screen shows Gia and me riding our chariot and I am floored by just how breathtaking we are. In the mystic darkness of twilight, the firelight illuminates our figures. We leave a thick trail of fire that flows off our billowing capes.

Megamind was right about the excessive amount of make up, because we look like living, breathing creatures of fire. Our body's silhouetted in midnight black, my mane dances like tendrils of real flames.

Speaking of which, Megamind's words ring in my ears.

"Remember. Heads high. Smile. They're going to love you!"

And so, I puff out my chest, put on my biggest smile, and wave a paw to the thousands of people. I'll admit, I sure am glad now that I have Gia to clutch onto. She is surprisingly steady.

As I start to feel a little braver, I begin to blow kisses to the crowd. Men and women alike reach out and grab them as if they're real tangible things. They shower us with flowers, shouting our names. Our first names, which they miraculously somehow remember.

Or did they just look it up?

Ah, whatever.

With the pounding music, the cheers, the admiration, a sudden feeling of pride swells up inside me. Somehow it's contagious because my smile widens and I catch a red rose from the crowd and smell it.

Yet the feeling is familiar, an old sensation. I know it. But I can't quite place a finger on it so I dismiss it immediately.

No one will forget me. Not my species, not my name. Alex. The Lion of Fire.

For the first time in the past couple of days, I feel hope rising up in me. There has to be at least one sponsor willing to take me on, especially with a crowd like this. And with a little extra help, some food, and maybe even the right weapon, why should I sit on the sidelines in the Games?

"Alex! Alex!" I can hear my name being called from every corner. Everyone wants my kisses.

It's not until we enter the City Circle that I realize that I can't feel my paw. I look down to see Gia clenching my knuckles with a death grip. I think she stopped the circulation. She notices and tries to loosen her grasp, but I regain my grip on her.

"You don't have to let go of me," I say. The firelight flickers off of her caramel eyes.

"Are you sure?" She asks.

"Yeah, I might fall out of this thing."

"Okay," She says with a thanking smile. So she keeps holding on, looking forward at the adoring crowd.

I can't help feeling a little weird about the way Megamind has linked us together. It's not really fair to show us off as a team and then shove us into the arena to kill each other.

Very weird.

The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle and stop. On the buildings that surround the Circle, every single window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol.

Our horses pull our chariot right up to President Pitch's mansion. The music ends with a flourish.

The president, a tall, skinny man with mysterious black hair and smoky grey skin, gives the official welcome from a balcony above us.

It is required to get a few shots of the faces of each tribute during his speech. But I can tell that we are getting way more than our fair share of airtime. The darker it gets, the harder it is to take your eyes away from our glimmering selves.

When the national anthem plays, they do in fact take quick cuts around to each pair of tributes, but the camera holds onto District 12 as we parade around the circle one last time and disappear into the Training Center.

The doors have only just shut behind us when we're engulfed by our prep teams, who babble unintelligently with praise.

As I glance around, I notice that a lot of the other tributes are shooting dirty looks. Which confirms, that we showed them all off.

Then Megamind and Minion are there, pulling us down from the chariot, carefully removing our flaming capes with delicate hands. Minion pops out a metal can and extinguishes them.

I realize I'm still glued to Gia and force my stiff fingers to open.

And I thought she was the one who needed it.

We both massage our paws.

_"_Thanks for letting me hold your paw. I was getting a little shaky there." She says, her words rolling off her tongue in that exotic Italian accent.

"It was nothing." I say shyly. Suddenly, it gets super hot and I rub at the back of my neck nervously.

Nervous? Why am I nervous.

_Alex, no! She is your enemy. Plotting in some diabolical way to end you. _A voice in my head taunts.

Right! I have to keep my distance. Gia is my enemy!

The jaguar flashes a smile and, out of nowhere, reaches up and kisses my cheek. My face heats up instantaneously.

But just because she's probably planning my doom doesn't mean I have to be rude.

Right_?_


	10. Ch 10 Elevators

Have you ever been on an elevator?

I would assume so. Sorry for asking.

It's just that the strange contraption isn't exactly common where I come from. Not to sound like some kind of whining peasant or anything, but in District 12 we don't have the luxury of riding it up and down all day. We walk up the stairs, thank you very much.

The only reason why I'm even thinking about elevators is because the one in the Training Center is a wonder. It's made of pure crystal so as we step inside and shoot upwards, the ground shrinks in a matter of seconds. My stomach flops nauseously, but in a sort of fun, goofy way. I can't help the wide smile that spreads across my muzzle.

Because every pair of tributes gets their own level in the Training Center as their sleeping quarters, ours is at the very top so I get to watch them each step off at their destinations until it's our turn. Now that we have arrived, I ask Tooth if we can go for another round without even thinking about it. Gia, surprisingly, agrees with me enthusiastically. I honestly expect the woman to scoff at how immature we are and that if we do, the other contestants would think that we are too childish. But she doesn't. Instead she grins broadly, showing her blinding pearly white teeth, and presses a button with the number 1 on it and we fall back down and up again.

I feel like laughing at my flopping innards and the slight dizziness I receive when we step off. To even chuckle when I lean against the wall for support, but I can't bring myself to laugh. I can smile, barely, but I can't laugh. The Games have already twisted my humor.

As we walk to our designated rooms, my mind reels back to when Tooth let us go on the elevator again like it was some kind of fair ride. But as I try to rationalize why exactly she agreed to it, I can't bring myself to come up with a viable reason. I ask Tooth once we drop off Gia and she simply replies, "It's the least I can do." She leaves me in my new bedroom with a weak, sad smile and tells me that dinner is in an hour and flutters away. Her words befuddle me the moment they fall out of her mouth, but I decide to think about it later. I will have plenty of time to mull over a lot of subjects when I'm left alone tonight.

I have a full hour to myself, so I decide to wash up. I shower in an even more tech savvy bathroom than the one on the train. The mounds of makeup that was applied to my body trickles down the drain in orange and crimson hues. Once out, I walk up to the closet which I discover is a machine that picks out your outfit for you. I end up wearing a pale blue sweatshirt and black cotton pants. I then lay on my bed that could easily be mistaken for a giant cloud stuffed into a mattress if it weren't for the forest green sheets and comforter. What either has to be a full forty five minutes or thirty seconds later, I really can't tell the difference, I'm called to come and eat.

Finally! I'm starving.

Everyone is already at the table, even Megamind and Minion. I sit in between Gia and Tooth as we dine on a marinated chicken spread over white rice with slices of oranges and green onions sprinkled in cheese. It is absolutely delicious, especially when I have my seconds and thirds.

What? I did say I was hungry. And I could use the extra pounds if I'm going to have some fleeting chance at winning the Hunger Games.

I'll admit it, that's just a cheap excuse for me to gorge myself on such delicious foods, but hey, I've never been one to turn down a meal. Why stop now?

I realize that everyone around me sips a red liquid from tall, elegant glasses. Wine. And considering the fact that I probably will never get another chance to try it, I order myself some. It's incredibly tart and runs down my throat thickly. I figure out that I don't like it when my head begins to throb after the fourth drink and exchange it for water.

I look over at Gobber, who has an entire bottle of wine to himself, chugging it down like a toddler with a juice box, practically sucking out the contents with large, loud gulps. How can he go around drinking that kind of stuff all the time? With his head foggy and feeling sick to his stomach? I couldn't do it even if I wanted to.

When our plates are cleared away for desert, a giant, three-teared cake coated in a blazing red frosting appears. It is intricately painted with white, yellow, orange, and purple edible paint that makes it look like it's made of fire. When we slice it up and eat it, we discover that it is a vanilla cake with hunks of strawberries inside. I absolutely love strawberries!

Everyone babbles on and on about what a hit we were, rambling how we sure showed those other districts that we were no to be over looked, not this year. That we were going to rise up from the ashes and give it our all to claim victory like some prodigal legend. As if. I don't care to listen, my mind is on the food.

A black hand appears before me and reaches for my empty plate. From the yellow cuff of the sleeve, it's a servant. I turn to the side to thank him but suddenly stop short. Standing in front of me in a servant's uniform is a short mammal with fur the color of a dried orange peel and bulging, intelligent eyes and ears that stick out of his round head. He stands low on his feet and his long arms curl at his sides, his slender tail swaying behind his hunched back. It is a monkey, but he looks vaguely familiar.

"Hey, don't I know you?" I ask him. His already all too wide eyes impossibly become even bigger, threatening to fall out of his skull. He shakes his head vigorously and walks away with his head bowed low. Although the action insists that he does not know me, something clicks in my head like a missing puzzle piece. I do know him, and the thought of where and how has my gut wrenching painfully. I manage to keep my dinner down when I meet the others' ogling gazes. They look at me as if I had sprouted a second head.

"Oh, Alex. You don't know him." Megamind says. "How could you possibly know an Avox?" He asks, running a napkin at the corners of his blue lips.

An Avox is a person who had somehow in some way committed a crime against the Capitol and was forced to work for them as a slave. As for punishment, they had also cut out their tongues so that no one could hear them and they couldn't talk for the rest of their lives. It's a cruel fate, and one I am not very fond of taking part in. Which is why poaching in any district is a dangerous task.

"No, it's just... I think I know him from somewhere." I say abruptly. I don't know how to explain something this monumental to these people. Not only would I be exposing myself to breaking the law, but I would also be admitting to witnessing an escape attempt.

"Maurice!" Gia exclaims with a snap of her fingers. "That's who he looks like. Maurice from the mill." Maurice is a stout, black and white lemur with a bottle-brush tail and yellow eyes. Although he is from a small island, he has already grown accustomed to the new environment when he was brought to District 12 and had become a manager at the coal mill within a matter of days. He mainly spends all of his time inside the mines, avoiding his previous ruler who walks the streets, drunk as a skunk. Maurice is the exact opposite of the exotic primate, and not just because of his species.

"Oh, yeah! You're right. That's exactly who he looks like. Must've been the ears." I say to her in an almost too willing tone.

"And possibly the tail." She says, shrugging her shoulders innocently. Everyone else gives a relieved sigh and resume their dull conversations like nothing had happened.

Later on, we are gathered into the living area to watch the Opening Ceremony reruns. The announcer lists off each district as they enter and the camera follows them suitably. Each pair waves to the crowds politely, some smile and some remain impassive. But when we come out, we completely throw over the competition. The speaker is fumbling with his words and the crowd's screams are almost deafening if it weren't for the t.v.'s audio controls. It's hard for me to believe that the two majestic creatures riding their blazing chariot of fire is actually me and Gia. I'm finally able to pry my eyes away from the dazzling scene when the anthem plays and Tooth ushers us to our rooms for the night.

"You'll need lots of rest. Training starts tomorrow and you'll need all the sleep you can get." She lectures. She leaves us with a flurry trail of green and violet feathers. My paw grabs the glass handle when Gia pipes up.

"So, Maurice." She says quietly. Shadows cast against her sharp jaw and ears, her golden fur a beacon of light in the bleak darkness.

"Yeah. Thought he somehow winded up here of all places. Guess not, though." I return. Gia was the one to suggest the idea that the servant was a for-real lookalike of the stout little creature we know back from our district, and from what I'm getting from her body language is that she's wanting to understand how I came to recognize the servant from earlier.

But not here. It may just be me being paranoid, but there could most likely be hidden cameras and microphones all over the place, especially if it means watching their precious tributes. And I don't want to spill out the truth if this rumor proves to be right.

The jaguar must've seen my unsettling nature show through because she speaks up again. "Have you seen the roof? Minion took me up there earlier today."

"Are we allowed?" I ask.

"Of course. Because we have the top floor all to ourselves, no other tributes are able to see it. And it gets pretty windy up there, so it's perfect for some fresh air."

I translate this as, "We'll be able to talk alone and no one will bother to disturb us." So with a nod of my head, we trek up a short set of stairs found at the end of the hallway and pass through a door where we enter a wide balcony.

For a place where literally no one visits, it looks as if quite a few have. Small palm trees and potted ferns dot the solid, cement floor and there is a mystical, tinkling noise that emits from the swaying trees. With closer inspection, I discover that they are silver wind chimes. The night sky is a smoky grey. Due to light pollution, we can't see any stars tonight and the sky looks bare without them. But that doesn't dim the sparkling splendor of the city, thrumming with electricity and artificial life.

True to her word, the wind is strong and fierce, perfect for blocking out a private conversation.

"So how do you know him?" Gia asks. I wouldn't have heard her if she wasn't so close, so I assure myself that I am safe to talk.

You may be wondering why I would be telling something so severe to an absolute stranger. But let's be honest, what do I have to lose? It's not like she could ever use this information for some sort of advantage in the Games. Might as well.

"One day, when a friend of mine and I were out, we suddenly heard rustling and immediately took cover." I venture, stealing a glance at the jaguar. She leans in slightly, ears erected to show that she's listening. "And from behind some bushes, we saw this bird and monkey. They were running because the bird's, I think it was a crane, wing looked to be injured.

"Then this hovercraft appeared and shot a net at the monkey and a spear through the bird." Gia gasps lightly, paw raising to her mouth. I turn to focus on my trembling paws and clasp them together immediately. I hate it when they shake. "Then they hauled the two into the air craft and flew away...I thought they were dead, until today."

To say that the memory was a little painful to recall would be the understatement of the century. It's practically a whole train wreck of guilt along with an atomic bomb of complete and utter shame, sprinkled with a dash of regret. You can imagine how I felt as the two flitted away, one screeching and writhing in bundle of knots and the other limp and lifeless. How many nights I spent wishing and thinking I could've done something, I could've saved them from some inhumane form of torture and barbaric death. But I didn't, I just hid in some bushes like a sniveling coward.

"Did... Did he see you?" Gia ventures in a cautious manner. My claws sink into the palm of my paw pad, refusing to give into shuddering instinctively.

"Why did she have to ask? Why did she want to know? Or more importantly, why are you going to tell her?" A voice in my head bellowed. But of course, I ignored it and continued to blab on about my cowardice act.

"Yeah, he did." I mentally kick myself for my voice breaking and dig my claws deeper, not caring if I end up bleeding.

The monkey had in fact looked at me, and it was then that I realized that I had betrayed him. When he was ensnared in the net, he had looked up and stared straight at us. Tigress and I clung to each other in the shadows, but those stunning blue eyes seemed to be crying for help, pleading and begging without ever saying a word and I felt the urge to help him. A strong, pulsing urge to leap out of the shrubbery and slice through the knitting of thick twine and free the poor creature. But I didn't. Instead I sat, frozen to the spot, and watched those river-blue saucers continue to plead and beg. The net with its captive shot up and zipped through a single hole in the air craft and drifted away. As everything went back to normal, birds started singing again and I could feel sharp thorns piercing my thighs, it was as if the world had stopped. Like the primate had taken time itself and dashed away before he could even think about returning. The world slowing to a halt and I sat helplessly, drowning in my own fear.

"Don't tell her the rest of the story. She's heard enough." The same voice from earlier reprimands, but it does so in a more sympathetic tone. Great, I probably couldn't have handled a ranting spree from my own conscious at the moment, anyway.

"I'm sorry." Gia squeaks, her golden orbs for eyes brimming with unshed tears. The kind, caring shrapnel part of me wants to wipe those tears away and encase her into my arms, but the other, more pessimistic side wants to get the hell out of there and pretend that this never happened or that I just wanted to hug my enemy.

Seriously, Alex. What are you thinking? You somehow become best buds, take on the world, take part in a journey of discovery together?

Yeah, you are delusional.

"Don't be. It happened a long time ago, and there's nothing I can do about it now." I say with a bitter bite playing on my tongue.

A strong current of wind blows out of nowhere and a chill runs up my spine, fur bristling on the back of my neck. Gia shivers and unknowingly sidesteps towards me. I stiffen as her arm presses against mine, our shared body heat bouncing back and forth between the two of us. Her sudden touch is like being shocked with an electric rod; jarring and intoxicating. I absolutely _do not _feel grateful for the warmth she provides and I absolutely _do not _flush as she rubs her paws up and down her arms, her knuckles grazing my bicep. I wish I had brought a jacket. Why didn't I think to bring a jacket?

I scoot away from her the second I decide to actually obey my conscious for once and _do not _feel bad when she looks at me disappointedly.

"W-We should head back." I stutter out. Hopefully she took it that I was cold and my teeth were chattering and not the fact that I was having an inner turmoil that would make a hurricane proud.

"Okay." She whispers, the howling wind drowning her out so it looks as if she only mouthed out the words. Before we know it, we are back inside the warmth and comfort of shelter. Without a word, I walk her to her room and watch as she enters. Before she closes the door, she turns back around, features uncertain but smiling nonetheless.

"Thank you." She says quietly. The door shuts behind her before I can ask what she means, and not really wanting to over step my boundaries on this frenemy of mine, I trudge my way to my room and clamor into bed without changing.

Remember when I decided to stow away all of my thoughts in my brain for later so I could think about it when I was alone? Well, I'm doing just that.

Let's start with the earliest event; Tooth's reveal of her more fun side. One would usually expect someone, especially a resident of the Capitol, to treat their tributes with the least amount of disrespect if it came to the tributes themselves trying to take their minds off of the Games. But Tooth was lenient with us. With my rude eating habits on the train, my knife throwing performance, and even when we asked to take a second ride on the elevator. She had enjoyed my little stunts, and then she had said "It's the least I can do." Did she know that with the oncoming slaughter of twenty-three people would leave us with little to no enjoyment? She must have or else she wouldn't had let us do that.

Then there was the monkey servant at dinner and Gia's statement that was later followed with our rooftop discussion. Why is she so interested in what I do and why I do it? It's as if she's trying to gain my trust.

Holy Crap! She's trying to gain my trust! She wants to seem so friendly and understanding so that I fall into her little trap! Well, I saw through it! I saw through her little facade and I'm not going to fall for her little mind games! I won't!

As I come to the very last part of tonight's inner battle, my paws curl into fists, crumpling the lush comforter into balls of green fabric. I'm not going to lie, it felt good to finally get that story out and off of my chest. The only other person who was there was Tigress, and if anything she pretends that it never happened. And for good a reason, too. You see, the part I didn't tell Gia was the most important, most soul crushing fact of just how heartless I was in that moment. Those two creatures who were captured, Tigress knew them. They were her friends when she had lived in China, Monkey and Crane. And worst of all, I had known this and still I neglected to save them like the coward I am.


	11. Ch 11 Where Pride Can Get You

It is only now I realize just how prideful I am. And let's just say I found out the hard way.

Do you want to know what I mean? Trust me it's a long story, and you may not want to hear about it. Ah, what the heck.

The next morning I was woken up and immediately sent to the Training Center with barely any time to scarf down a muffin or two. I was rapidly slipped into a full body suit made of a sheer red and black material and practically shoved into the elevator before I could try to ask what time it was. Apparently, Gia was right next to me the whole time. I just didn't see her.

How could anyone expect me to? My vision was so blurry from sleep that I could barely see past my nose.

The other tributes were already present and stood in a semi-circle in front of a man with ebony black hair and grey skin. I believed they called him something along the lines of Branch. The deep frown carved into his young face made him seem years older when in reality he couldn't have been over twenty. He talked to us about how here we would prepare ourselves for the arena and that there were multiple stations that would help us do just that. Branch stressed that each one was just as important as the next, no matter how insignificant one may seem it could mean the difference between life and death.

It wasn't until I sat at the fire-starting station that I realized that Gia and I were wearing the exact same outfit. Everyone else was wearing what they pleased and the jaguar and I were twinning.

"Again with the pairing us together thing." I groaned to myself mentally. "Why is Megamind making us look like some kind of team? Is he expecting us to become allies in the arena when he knows full well that one of us will die in the end? Yeah, right. When pigs fly. And I say that with no means of offense to pigs, or anything."

We had a full three days to train before we enter the Games and I used them to my full advantage. Keeping in mind the promise I made to Marty, I intended to fulfill it as best as I could with becoming one with my survival instincts. I may have spent the past few years in the wilderness with someone who can not only fight but also wield a multitude of weapons, but if there's one thing I've gained from experience is that there's always something to learn.

I spent the first day becoming familiar with camouflage and food resources. This included cooking, fires, and obviously hiding in vegetation like shrubbery and trees. Gia tended to stick to my side as I learned how to roll in a pile of mud and leaves properly so that I could blend in. I also learned that Gia is phenomenal at camouflage. One minute she's dipping a small paintbrush made from blades of dried grass in a puddle of mud and the next her arms looked like the branches of a tree. Every groove, every shadow, everything was on point. She told me that back at the bakery she used to decorate the cakes.

"Yeah, but when did she learn to paint a freaking tree branch?" I thought to myself.

The next day was used up for learning how to set traps. I managed to impress Branch when I showed him a wire snare that strung the captive a few feet above the ground to prevent scavengers or predators from stealing the trapped animal. Tigress taught me that one.

I remember how she once told me that before she came to District 12, she didn't know much about trapping herself. As it turns out, an older man who had spent his a majority of his life poaching was willing to help her gain the knowledge she needed to become the hunting expert she is today. Her strong paws, paws that could crush stones and take punch after punch, hit after hit and still not feel a thing, could set the most delicate of snares in the most difficult places possible. I envy her paws. Although the trap I made was decent, there was no competition when compared to my striped friend's. My paws are large and clumsy. It took me months upon months to just shoot an arrow over ten feet. But she says to not envy but to be grateful. We are made the way we are to serve our purposes. Whatever that means.

As I tried to make a tight, reliable knot with a length of rope, Gia nudged me lightly and whispered, "I think you have a shadow." I spun around to see a small girl hiding behind a pillar. She ducked away when I caught sight of her. It was the girl from District 11, the one with creamy brown skin and shining black curls cascading over large green eyes. I simply dismissed it, but it was then that I noticed that she was always watching me. Eyes glued to my every movement. When I started a small fire made of leaves and bark, when I made a subtle broth from water and birch, even when I ate she was there looking at me. She was always there.

"What the hell is with this kid?" I asked myself as I nibbled on the crust of my sandwich.

The last day I decided to focus on fighting. Not the kind with swords and spears like the other tributes have occupied themselves with for the past few days. I was itching to get ahold of the single bow that hung next to other weapons. A handful had tried to shoot with it but failed miserably. I so wanted to show off in front of them. To make others feel intimidated by my superior skills. That I was to be feared. But the smarter, more logical part of me held me back. I needed to keep it a secret. It would be my element of surprise when they saw me in the arena with that bow and arrow in hand, or paw in this case. So I focused on holding my choke hold until I knew that my contestant had had enough.

After a light lunch, we were all quartered in the cafeteria for the Gamemakers to rank us. After every training session, the Gamemakers have us come in one by one and demonstrate our skills. They've already been watching us ever since training started through the second level of Training Center, speculating us from afar through the glass ceiling. When we see them privately, they use the tribute's performance to rank them on a scale from 1-12 so that the people of Panem have an idea of how well we will do in the arena. But for us tributes it's to see who are the biggest threats. If you're really good at surviving and/or fighting, you'll possibly get an 8 or 9, possibly a 10. The chance of anyone getting a 12 is astronomical. Never in the history of the Hunger Games has it happened to anyone.

Gia and I sit at our little round table in silence as name after name is called and the room slowly becomes empty. The anxiety building up inside my sternum became a concern to my senses. It felt that if I kept bouncing my leg and tapping my claws against the steel surface, the bubble in my chest cavity would swell and cause me to suddenly implode. I asked Gia about the basket of bread in the center of the table to take my mind off of what was to come when I was called and she told me how each one is related to a district. I didn't really listen as she went on about each piece of bread and their ingredients and everything she knew about the baked goods. Her calm demeanor was enough to still my racing heart.

Girls went before guys, so when Gia left I was the only one who remained in the wide room. It seamed like barely any time passed before I was being escorted into a dim-lit room where a rack of weapons were set on one side and numerous targets stood on the other. The group of Gamemakers lounged about at a long table with empty wine glasses and dirty dishes. By the glazed expressions they gave me, most of them were either tired or bored.

I finally got ahold of the bow I had been so longing to use and along with a quiver of bows and stood in place 30-feet away from a target. I put an arrow in place and steadily aimed and released. It struck the outer layer of the center. I tried again and that time it went right through the middle.

An uplifting spark of joy ignited within my chest and I turned to see how the gamemakers reacted only to realize that they hadn't been watching at me at all. They hadn't even looked my way. Instead, they all gathered around something large and steaming. A giant roasted pig on a spit had been placed down to eat when I had come in.

It was as if someone had turned the dial of a stove all the way on high the second I caught sight of the sow. I could feel my blood begin to boil beneath my fur, but of course I pushed it down and grabbed another arrow. This time I shot it at a lightbulb's case, shards of glass clattered to the floor like solid rain. Again, no one payed a attention. Their cups were being filled, platters were placed, and I had been forgotten.

You've probably seen a wild, rabid animal attack a human or your mother have a drastic change in her behavior and suddenly become what one could describe as Satin. Trust me when I say that whatever anger they had felt to go full on monster-mode was nothing compared to what had been cooking up in my body.

The Gamemakers practically picked a dead pig over me. A lion, a tribute, someone who had sacrificed their very life to save his friend from being the Hunger Games' next victim. Oh, how I wanted to just storm my way over there and tear that pig to shreds. Slash right through the stuffed stomach of the animal and spill its contents all over their designer clothes and pristine shoes.

But I had a better idea. This time when I shot my next arrow, I didn't aim for one of the multiple targets or any of the lights. That time, I shot it straight at the pig, or the pig's apple that had been lodged into its snout. The force of my projectile knocked the fruit out of its mouth and to the wall where it wobbled slightly and stilled. The gamemakers went completely silent and finally turned to me with flabbergasted expressions etched into their perfectly altered faces. A wildfire of emotions erupted within me. Victory, cockiness, shame, anger, a little nervousness. But it felt good to see their reactions. I bowed to them lowly as if greeting royalty as a form of mockery.

"Thank you for you time." I said blandly. I turned on my heel and walked out of there without another word. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to leave without their permission, but then again I really didn't give a damn.

The scolding I received from Tooth after I told everyone what had happened was enough to send a grown man running away with his tail between his legs. Gobbler, on the other hand, was rather excited that I had pulled such a stunt. He kept asking how they had reacted and what did they do. I honestly enjoyed giving him the extra details that I could've sworn a woman tripped and knocked into an ice sculpture, shattering it.

Later on, we watched our scores get advertised over the program. Most tributes had gotten 6s, 7s, a few 5s and a 9. Then came District 12. I clenched the arm of the chair I resided in as my picture popped up.

"And Alex Lyon's score is..." The announcer drew out.

Please be a good number, please be a good number, please be a good number!

"A 12!" The man nearly shouted in astonishment.

At first I thought that there must've been some sort of mistake, or maybe my eyes and ears were just playing tricks on me.

"I'm sorry. Minion can you turn up the volume because I can't hear. I thought he had said the number 12? Like as in 10 plus 2?" I asked as I rubbed my ears to get whatever was clogging them out.

"Alex, he did say 12." Gia answered.

"Wait! Really?" I asked. Everyone gave me a skeptical look as if they were worried about my health, but otherwise shrugged it off and substituted their doubts with the assumption that I was shocked at having such a high number for my score. Megamind stood to his leather boots and raised his glass of sparkling champagne.

"A toast! To the Lion of Fire , Alex." Everyone lifted their glasses and cheered before taking sips of the bubbling beverage. They all applauded lightly and clapped a hand on my back before they quieted down again for Gia's score. She got a 10.

Once again, Tooth led us to our bedrooms and raved on and on about getting enough sleep and that it was a big, big day tomorrow. When she left, I rolled my eyes and went to go to bed when Gia spoke through the thick mass of darkness that cloaked the hallway heavily.

"Congratulations on your score." She said meekly. I almost snapped my head around to stare at her in disbelief.

Why was she congratulating me? I really didn't do much? If anything I should've gotten at least a 5 for what I did.

And shouldn't she be, I don't know, jealous of my score. Sure, she got a nice score, better than most. How was I supposed to expect her to react? She wouldn't flip out and say something like, "You'll rue the day you ever stepped on that podium and became a tribute!", for two reasons. One, she's too kind-hearted for something of the like. And two, I'm pretty sure we all wished we hadn't been called to that stage back at District 12 to become contestants of the Hunger Games.

My back goes rigid and I stand there, stiff as a statue and gaze locked onto the door. I could feel the jaguar's eyes on me, but I couldn't bring myself to look at her caramel orbs. Those soft, forgiving brown jewels that penetrated through my very soul and saw everything processing through me.

"Thanks." I breathed and jumped into my room and slammed the door harder than I intended. I immediately flop onto my bed and scream into a nearby pillow until my throat is raw.

What is wrong with me? How did I go from having the audacity to literally shoot an arrow at a prestige group of people, who are as high and mighty as kings, and walk away as if it was nothing, then I get one compliment from my enemy and I crumble under pressure? I am so screwed!

I wasn't afraid of the Gamemakers coming after me for what had happened. They couldn't just get rid of a tribute and replace it like an old lightbulb. I'm already in the system and I'm too far in to get out. So there's nothing they can really do about it. Of course, they can make my life a living hell in the arena, but what more can they add to the Hunger Games that isn't going to give me nightmares for the rest of my life, that is if I survive. That's that. So then why did I go immobilized when Gia talked to me?

And now as I lay in my bed, I ask myself that very question for what has to be the thousandth time for the past three hours. And what's most befuddling of all is that I cannot come up with an answer. I cannot come up with a stupidly simple answer for this stupidly simple question that now plagues my thoughts. It deprives me of both rest and sleep.

And since I don't see an end to this ongoing inner battle, my mind goes back to the people I know and love back at District 12. What would they say to what I did? Marty would most likely pry me about how funny it was when the lady fell over. Melman would rant about the endless severe consequences of my decision to be so harsh towards the Gamemakers. Gloria would probably try to console the giraffe to calm him down and think of a more empathetic reason for why I had shot the arrow at them. My mom would say that it would be something my dad would've done. And Tigress would've most definitely encouraged me. Although she has her own beliefs for honor and respect, I could honestly see her lash out for their careless behavior.

The thought of it makes me smile. It's comforting to know that there are people who would stick by my side even after I made some stupid decision and help me get through it. Or at least I did. Here, I'm all alone. Excluding my little entourage of guidance that lead me to my ultimate battle in the Games and my companion who I struggle to define as either a friend or an enemy, I have no one. No one to go out and hunt with all day, no one to go home, no one to and tell stories to. All of that is gone.


	12. Ch 12 Holy Sh-

I probably slept for about three hours. It feels like I closed my eyes just two seconds ago and now it's morning. Don't you hate it when that happens? If there's even a remotely good chance of staying in bed for the rest of eternity, I would most definitely would. But the obnoxious pounding of a manicured hand on the wooden face of the door accompanied by Tooth's chipper speeches to coax me awake, I am forced to emerge from the heap of deliciously warm blankets to go eat. The first thing I grab is a pot of coffee, pouring myself an abundant amount of black, tar-like liquid into a mug with copious portions of sugar and cream.

If there's one thing I love more than anything in the entire universe, it's coffee. The few times I had the opportunity to drink it, I did and fell completely in love. The bittersweet cream swishes over my tongue softly and I sigh in pleasure. Such a sensation of pure bliss that comes from this single beverage is considered totally rare back home. Coffee is way too expensive to buy constantly, and me being addicted to it isn't beneficial. I'd buy it when I could; when we had enough supplies to get by, ingredients for remedies, food, and had nothing better to do with a little extra change. So pretty much never. But here in the Capitol, coffee rains from the sky. The mere thought of hot drink ever of running out would be written off as either impossible or close to it. It's probably the only thing I like about the Capitol.

"Rough nigh'." Gobber motions to something on the top of my head and looks to be suppressing a fit of laughter, failing miserably. I keep my gaze on him (who is having trouble keeping strings of chuckles in his mouth) as I reach a paw to my mane and by only feeling the tendrils of hair, I can tell it's not good. I dash to the bathroom and nearly scream like a frightened school girl at what I find. My hair looks like someone had stuffed it into a blender set on 'chop'. Golden strands shoot off my head like outstretched limbs, scraggly and mangy strings frizz out in every possible direction. I comb it out rapidly until it's relatively back to normal and return to the table.

"Tha' was quite the scene ya made 'here." Gobber comments after I take my seat. Everyone else tries to hide their giggles behind their hands/paws as I glare daggers at the blonde man.

"Oh, like you care about personal hygiene." I spit out. He only lifts one side of his unibrow and chugs down a third of his flask. Gia glances at me sideways and I suddenly become self conscious. I ignore her as best as I can as I down the now cold cup of coffee.

"A'righ'. Lets get down to bu'iness." Gobber announces after wiping a meaty hand over his liquor-glazed mustache. "Today i' where we will private'y train yer for the in'erview tonigh' with Ceaser Flickerman. Tooth 'ere will take one of yer and I'll take the o'her for a few hours, then we'll switch off. Any ques'ions?"

Gia sits up slightly as if to speak. "Uh, yes. When can we-"

"None? Good. Lets get star'ed." Gobber stands up and hobbles away. Gia gives a flabbergasted facial expression to anyone facing her. When she turns to me, I simply shrug and stand up as well.

I get Tooth first. At the start, I think that it'll be easy since she is having me learn how to get comfortable with certain clothes. How hard can it be? Two hours later, I'm regretting that I ever thought that dress up is easy. Do you have any idea how suffocating a tuxedo is? I can barely breath as I try to strut in a straight line like I'm on the runway in a stiff black suit. I can't move either. I've ripped two outfits in half, undone several stitchings, and I don't even know how many buttons we've lost. But by the end I am able to walk and sit without any major damages. After a quick break for lunch, I now have Gobber who will help me with my appearance. Not physically, of course. Tooth made sure we covered that. What Gobber will be mentoring me with is my personality. He will help me decide what kind of face I will portray to the crowd. Funny, aggressive, sexy. Any of those to appeal to sponsors that will later support us in the arena. We find out really quick that this is not going to go so well. Back at the Central Park Zoo, it was a walk in the park when it came to performing. All I really had to do was dance around, smile, and wave. It was always about the energy I gave the people. It was me being me. But here it's different. They are expecting me to act a certain way, to talk a certain way, to be something that I'm not. I do not have the privilege to be myself. So we switch tactics by using speech cards that I read aloud in specific ways to match a personality. We blow right through the cards after the first hour and we still have no idea what to do. Obviously I can't be sexy. That would just be weird. I'm not necessarily aggressive, but I'm not soft either. And when it comes to being funny, just keep in mind that I'm not the best of comedians.

"If we don' find somet'ing for ya soon, we're goin to hav' a har' time reelin in those sponsors." Gobber says as he rubs the space between his eyes as if to assuage a headache.

"You don't have to tell me twice." I remark sourly. Gobber may not be the best of mentors, but I have to admit that he is making an effort to give me a good impression. Ever since the Opening Ceremony, I've noticed that he's sobered up quite a bit. He no longer drinks ample amounts of alcohol and has been eating more sustenance at mealtime. It's as if he has come to some great awakening that we have a sliver chance at winning the Games. Whatever has propelled the aged man to put so much work ethic into providing as much advice and knowledge to us is unknown to me, but I am grateful nonetheless. Yet even with Gobber's change of heart, this has to be the most frustrating thing I have ever experienced, and that's saying something.

"Well... there i' one more thin' we can try." Gobber draws out, grabbing my full attention.

"Oh yeah. And what's that?" I ask as I cup my cheek with my paw tiredly.

"Jus' be yourself." Gobber exclaims. "Nothin' specific, nothin' fancy. Just plai' ol' yer."

I have to take a moment to fully comprehend what he had just said. "So what your saying is that you want me to just wing it?"

"Yep." The man leans back casually, splaying his arms over the cobalt blue cushions that encompass his square form.

The next thing I know, I'm back in my room in what has to be the most amazing outfit ever made for a lion. Manufactured to fit the body of a large feline, such as myself, the tuxedo that Megamind has designed is large and loose fitting. The fiery crimson cloth glows in the dimness of dusk, the inlaid jewels sparkle across my shoulders, wrists, and ankles. My mane is neatly brushed out and expertly braided through, bringing some character to the heap of hair. In a word, I look "handsome", like a bachelor about to announce a show or something of the like.

"I hear that Gobber is going to have you play it safe during the interview and be yourself." Megamind says, picking a smidgen of lint off my sleeve.

"Yeah, sounds about right." I say back, eyes glued to the subtle, yet splendid light emitting from my suit. "What do you think of it?" I'm not sure exactly why I ask him about my behavior for the interview of all people, but I can't find myself to care. Possibly because he's someone who's seen and taken part in so many strange outfit trends with equally strange, pompous people that he would be unfazed by someone like me to have such a simple approach on a nationwide television program.

"I think it's better than you trying to be fake." He says, emerald eyes squared with mine. His electric blue skin on his bald head seems to illuminate like a cobalt light bulb in the shallow darkness. "Tributes showing themselves off with diverse behaviors and attitudes is entertaining, at most. But with you, being real, now that's something worth watching."

"You know, I should've had you as a mentor, instead. Your less of an asshole than Gobber."

Megamind chuckles in an amusing manner. "I'm not so sure about that. Gobber may be a rough around the edges, but he's blunt. He'll be honest with anyone about anything, regardless of how they'll feel."

"That's for sure." I say as we exit the room, our combined radiance creating a warbling, violet hue against the wall.

When we leave to go to a car that will take us to the interview, I see Gia for the first time since breakfast. And I am floored. A gorgeous red dress dons her curved form, tight in the waist and shoulders. Lengths of sheer fabric hang off her thin straps to the beaded bracelets on her wrists like curtains. Numerous gems ranging from blood red to sunflower yellow glimmer along the flowing tendrils of silk. Rims of black makeup border her large eyes, the golden orbs popping out. They flicker to and fro, like the flame of a candle dancing on a short, burnt string protruding from a stick of wax. She is absolutely stunning.

The drive to the outdoor auditorium is quick and quiet for a crowded street filled with numerous vehicles. Behind the stage, we are surrounded by our fellow tributes. Some look at us with curious, awestruck gazes and others...not so much. It's mostly the Careers who shoot nasty looks at Gia and me, eyeing our every movement like a predator watching their prey. Despite the fact that the Games don't start until tomorrow, it's as if they have already targeted us as their next victims.

Just before Megamind makes his way to the audience, he takes a quick visit back to me.

"Remember, heads high-"

"Smile, they're going love us. Yeah, yeah. You already told us." I say a little more bitterly than I intend. But if he cares to take note of it or not, he doesn't show it. He smiles knowingly, "I know I did. Just do one thing for me while you're up there." I instinctively give a slight nod. "Spin."

"What?"

"Find an opportunity to spin. Trust me on this." I consider having him hospitalized for thinking that spinning in a circle is the best tactic for me winning over a sponsor or two. But then again, he did make me a costume made of fire and I came away in one, not-charred piece. It's right there in that moment that I realize that I trust Megamind, maybe more than I should. It may get me into some serious trouble later on, but for now I have faith. So I give an affirmative nod of my head, my golden braids bouncing lightly, and he leaves.

Time flies by unexpectedly and I'm not really sure where it went. I don't pay attention to the other tribute's interviews seeing that they'll be dead within the days to come. And witnessing them pour out whatever the heck their mentors told them to about their lives and passions isn't going to help me survive the Games, especially with the fact that these kids will die for someone else's victory, if not their own. Imagine having to go home with that on your conscience. But it's better than being murdered in an arena with thousands of people watching you. Who knows, right?

Unlike the training interviews with the Gamemakers, males go before females. I hear the buzzard signaling the end of the dark-skinned girl from District 11, I can hear my name being called, and I can feel myself stand and trudge towards the stage. But the only thing I can actually feel is the painful thrumming of my heart against my ribs and the roar of applause that vibrates the the floor, shaking my knees. Suddenly I want to run away and hide in a deep, dark hole for the rest of time. To conceal myself in utter darkness to never be found by anyone or anything in search of their lost tribute. A voice in my head echoes strings of curses and taunts me for having this fearful impulse.

"Oh, come on! You've done this a million times. You shouldn't be such a scaredy cat. Dammit!" It echoes in my skull.

"Yeah, but last time the audience wasn't a horde of clown-like freaks who want to watch innocent children die just for their entertainment." I bark back, not out loud because I'd probably be sent to an asylum. But I can't say that the voice is wrong. I've never had trouble getting up in front of a crowd and doing whatever pleased them, whether or not the purpose was just or not. I should at least try. I take in a long breath, close my eyes, and step out onto the stage.

There is a moment of tranquil stillness, as if I am listening to white noise. A tunnel of white welcomes me as I step onto the wide stage, the piercing applause so loud it's almost quieted to a gentle hum. It's peaceful, it's noiseless, it's beautiful. I never want to end this blissful nothingness.

"Welcome, Alex Lyon." A cheerful voice pulls me out of my stunned daze. I turn to see Ceaser Flickerman start to guide me to a pair of elegant seats. His towering, dolloped lime green hair and lips complemented by his plaster pale skin makes him look like a key lime pie fresh from a bakery. He grins at me and to the crowd, his pearly white teeth sparkling like his jaded green outfit.

"It's very nice to meet you, Alex." He greets.

"Same here, Caesar."

"I have to say. When I was watching the Opening Ceremony, I was not expecting such an amazing display from such a small district." Ceaser says casually. Like Megamind, for someone who goes all out in their choice of wardrobe he is surprisingly facile to talk to. I find it easier to converse with this walking, talking pie of a man than wearing a tux and not ripping it to shreds.

"You and me both." I say. The crowd laughs as queued. I feel a spark of confidence ignite within me and without my consent, a smile spreads across my muzzle. It's natural and real, just like me.

"In all my years of attending the Opening Ceremony, I've never seen a pair of tributes look so dazzling. I'm not gonna lie, I was a little jealous of just how fabulous you were."

"Well, you're going to have to give all the credit to my stylist for that." I say.

"Where is Megamind, anyway? He's in the crowd somewhere, right?" We both turn towards the swarming mass of brightly colored heads in search of the black leather-clad designer. We find him in a row closer to the stage. He gives a modest wave, but doesn't take a stand like Ceaser ushers him to.

"I have to know." Ceaser continues. "Were you scared when you were wearing those flames? I mean, anyone would be, I know I would, but...what was going through your head when you were riding that chariot?" Ceaser asks. He seems intent on keeping me and everyone else on track in a fun, energetic manner. Of course, he's experienced in keeping the show lively. He's been doing this for years.

"The one thing going through my head was, 'If I am burnt to a crisp and don't make it out of here, at least I'll do it looking fantastic.' The crowd gives a hearty round of guffawing and Ceaser bellows, head thrown back and clutching his stomach. Wow, I'm a hit. "And even now, in this suit, I never dreamed that it was possible to look this good in all my life." I say as if stricken with absolute shock at my flawless appearance. Another howl sounds off and it takes a whole minute for them to quiet down.

"It is a very nice suit. Very classic." Ceaser notes, fascinated by the refined tuxedo. "Is there any way we could switch suits. I think I could pull off red. Don't you think?" He asks the crowd for approval and they give reassuring cheers as he faces them for confirmation.

I chuckle aloud. "Absolutely! But I doubt I'd be able to pull off your outfit. Lets just say that green isn't exactly color." And another wave of laughter goes off. Man, I am just killing it. Now's my chance. "Do you mind if I show you the whole thing?"

"No, go right ahead." Ceaser answers excitedly, gesturing for me to stand like he did with Megamind. I do and I start to spin like stylist asked of me. At first, nothing happens. But then I see it. Rising from the cuffs of my ankles and wrists, flames grow and lick my calves and arms. Tendrils of fire sway as if caught in the midst of a breeze and envelope my limbs, eating me alive. Megamind has done it again. He has made my clothes to become a fiery display, just as good as last time. The multitude of people before me 'ooh' and 'aww' at the scene. Even Ceaser Flickerman's pale, celery green eyes bulge out of his sockets. I have to stop after a while because I am way too dizzy and swerve violently on my feet like a drunken man. The flames die down and Ceaser helps me steady myself as I nearly topple over and he leads me back to my seat, grinning from ear to ear like a kid on Christmas.

"That was brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!" Ceaser shrieks and the audience follows his lead. I can practically feel Megamind's smirk from the crowd, and that's before I glance over at him and he returns it with a simple thumbs up.

"Okay, okay. I just want to get serious here for a second." Ceaser announces and the crowd goes silent. "I think we'd all like to know how you came to be here by...volunteering yourself. In fact, you are the very first volunteer for the Reaping in your district."

My heart bobs up into my throat as if transformed into a helium balloon, blocking my windpipe. I sit there, paralyzed and suffocating. I'm not ready to spill my guts out on how I couldn't bear the idea of witnessing my best friend die in an arena. I don't think I can express such an emotional outbreak to these weirdly dressed strangers. And if I'm going to, I wouldn't want to because it's too soon to tell out loud comfortably. Yet I can't make up some sappy, shit story about me being the brave, selfless giant cat they believe me to be. I have to try. So with all my inner strength, I push down my balloon of a heart and tie the string to the pit of my stomach, anchoring it and myself for what's to come.

"Yeah, I...wasn't really planning on ever being in the Hunger Games. I don't think anyone really does. But...when I saw my friend-"

"His name's Marty, right?" Ceaser interrupts. I would've shot him a dirty look if it wasn't for the fact that he only stopped me mid sentence to give me a break. He looks at me sympathetically, his gaze full of pity. I want to be angered at the notion of being pitied. I don't need his or anyone's pity. I should be stronger than this, dammit. Not just for me, but for Marty. I need to be strong for Marty...And my voice may have been on the brink of cracking, so thank God Ceaser was there to stop me from embarrassing myself over all of Panem.

"Yeah, Marty. I've known him since we were kids and...hearing his name called I...I couldn't fathom the thought of him going in there. I just couldn't-can't." I say. I find a sudden interest in my feet, refusing to look up at those celery green saucers, or anyone's eyes for that matter. What I had just said was personal. Something I didn't think to share with anyone but those closest to me. And those people are gone. Right here in this moment, I am vulnerable, like a newborn baby brought under the spot light.

"I bet that was hard for you. Leaving everything behind for your friend's life." Ceaser sighs out, each word heavier than the last until they are crushing weight on my back. I try to straighten out my spine in an attempt to get out of my slumped position.

"It was, but I made him a promise. That no matter what happened that I'd try to win for him."

"And try you will." Ceaser ends for me. You can imagine how grateful I was for the buzzer going off, signaling the end of my interview. We shake hand to paw and I take my other seat behind stage. It's Gia's turn now and as she walks by, she gently grasps my shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. She strides away before I can ask her what she did that for, but I already know.

That's her. Gia, the kind and forgiving jaguar. Compared to me, she's an angel. And in contrast, I'm more or less a demon from hell. I'm going to be honest, I'm not the same lion I used to be. That's already pretty damn obvious. Throughout the past couple of years in District 12, I've seen and experienced things most people wouldn't even think to take part in. Things that most wouldn't even survive through. Sometimes I think of myself as the DC Comic vigilante, the Green Arrow. Not because we both use the bow and arrow as our choice of weapon, but because he had spent five years alone on an island. And it was there that he learned the laws or survival, was tortured and beaten for information, and was changed completely when he returned home. Going from the young playboy of Starling City to the hardcore night watcher in the most brutal, soul crushing way possible. Now that's someone I can relate to.

I slowly submerge into the drowning chaos of my thoughts, indulging into the short, random ideas that pop up into my head. I've been told that I can get caught up in my own little world from time to time. This isn't anything new. By the time I resurface from the thrashing waves of my mind, Gia is still up on stage. She enraptures the audience with her sweet smiles and stories from her time back home in the bakery. She accepts the complements from Ceaser about how beautiful she is and her exotic accent. It's by this time that Ceaser asks if she has a significant other.

"Oh no." She says, a mirthful giggle dancing on her lips. "I'm afraid I didn't get the chance to find a mate to love."

"Oh, come on." Ceaser lures, waving off her statement as if it's the most preposterous thing ever said on the program. "With you being so beautiful, I don't see how you couldn't catch the eye of at least a dozen or so males."

She steals a moment to herself, gripping her paws together as her tail curls at her feet. "Well...there was one male I liked." She draws out, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper.

"Pray tell." Ceaser says, leaning in to catch every word spilling from her short snort. Her black ears flatten against her skull, the golden fur of her head gleaming under the harsh light.

"I had only known him for a few years, but I doubt he ever noticed me." She says in a desolate tone.

"And why would you say that?"

"Because he was always too busy taking care of his family that he didn't see me. And I really couldn't blame him for not. He needed to support his family."

A long, earsplitting minute of pure silence drifts over the stage and audience once again. I guess the Capitol people weren't expecting such an emotional, heartfelt tale from this single tribute. Ceaser reaches over and takes Gia's small paws, his soft skin and her bronzed, spotted fur glistening in the spotlight. "Here's what you do." He says firmly, as if instructing her. "You win this Hunger Games and go straight home to proclaim your love for him. There's no way he can reject it if you win." The crowd screams out counseling shouts of agreement, and for a split second Gia smiles weakly but it vanishes within an instant.

"Thank you, Ceaser. But I don't think I could ever do that."

"Why?"

"Because...he came with me."

And just like that, a bomb is dropped and I am totally taken aback. I go completely numb. I can't feel my jaw drop, I can't feel my ballon-like heart bounce back up in my throat. The only thing that manages to get through my head is that single statement and from there my mouth reacts before I can.

"Holy sh-" The audience's ear-deafening screeches drown out the rest of that sentence.


	13. Ch 13 Nostalgia

"What the hell was that?!" I shriek out after the interview ends. In all honesty, you really can't blame me for going all psycho-maniac on my fellow tribute. I mean, seriously. Just what in the hell was going through her goddamn head?! Who gives her the authority—scratch that—the audacity to say something so crazy to not just a crowd of Capitol people, but to the entire nation of Panem?! It just doesn't make any sense.

I push my way through the crowd and into a secluded hallway for those either tending to the District 12 tributes or are the District 12 tributes and find Gia practically waltzing away like she hadn't just humiliated me in front of thousands of people. I storm to her and swipe my paw across her shoulders to spin her around and shove her against the wall, my forearm pressing against her collarbone, no way out. If I wasn't so pissed off I probably wouldn't have been so harsh and irrational with my reaction to Gia's announcement, but right now I don't give a damn if I'm scaring the living shit out of her.

Heck! She scared me half to death.

"Just what the hell were you thinking?!" I scream, shaking her. She looks frightened, trembling and wide-eyed as if jumped by some livid beast.

Why did I use the term 'like'? That's exactly what's happening. I'm just about to cuss her out when someone pulls at the back of my collar and yanks me backwards into a wall, separating me from my enemy. I try to get back at her, trying to threaten her into giving me some viable reason for saying such things. But of course, Gobber and Minion keep a firm grip on my arms, holding me back.

"What happened?!" Tooth yelps, seeing the chaos unfolding before her.

"Why don' ya tell her, eh?" Gobber grunts as he twists my arm painfully, more like an order than a suggestion. As the rugged man continues to yank and screw my arm like a freaking drill, I have no choice but to submit. I stop pulling and finally take a deep breath to clear out the raging red blur clouding my mind and vision.

"Did you not see what she did?" I say. "She humiliated me in front of everyone. Going off about some none existent love interest in me to make me-to make me look weak." I hiss the final words through the canines of my teeth, causing Gia to quiver slightly as Tooth comforts her.

"No." Gobber says loudly to get my attention. "She made ya desirable. If any'ting shows for i' it's the fact tha' she jus' sacrificed her independence in the arena for yer security of havin' sponsors."

Why would she do that for me? I've done nothing to gain her trust and respect for her to do such a selfless act, so why would she go out of her way to make sure that I have a solid chance of making it out alive in the Games when she can only care for herself? That's what I've been doing ever since I entered the stinking Capitol and I'm doing just fine. I don't need my opponent to be a little happy helper or some kind of loyal protector. I can take care of myself, thank you very much.

I don't say any of this out loud because another bout from Gobber and possibly Tooth is the last thing I need on my plate. What I do need is a giant melatonin pill and a good night's rest so that I can dream away this hellish nightmare that just so happens to be my reality. On our way back to the Training Center, Gia and I are separated. I ride with my mentors, Megamind, and Minion while Gia confides to the company of the giggly group of our prep teams. Probably thought I might turn on her in the middle of the car ride and throw her out the window on our way through the streets, or something of the like.

Hey, I may be a few quarters short of a buck, but I'm not totally wack. I still have a sliver of sanity left over from the past tormenting years to restrain me from committing first degree murder. Guess that doesn't matter once the Games begin, huh?

The ride back is quiet and tense. Tooth's violet orbs and Gobber's grey eyes are as hard as stone, embedding their gazed into a spot in my head as if attempting to drive a nail through my skull. I keep my own eyes plastered to my feet, the glittering jewels sewn into the hem of my pants sparkling against the black leather of my seat.

The rest of the night is a blur mainly because I don't want to remember what happens to me before I'm sent to my doom. But I distinctly remember two things that stuck with me. The first one was when we were watching the recaps of the interviews. Again, didn't pay much attention to the tributes because what does it matter in the next few hours? But when we get to me, I unknowingly lean in. Watching myself be so...frivolous and open is just so strange that my brows knit together in disgust.

That is not me. That is a clear reflection of the old Alex the Lion from New York City, not the hardened survivor of District 12. Not Alex Lyon. I gave the audience only what they wanted to see, something interesting and exotic to look at before the slaughter of innocent children. But compared to tributes I've seen in the past, I'm no better than them. Brought from the ruins of their homes to the high and mighty city of our leaders to play dress up and die a horrible, miserable death all in one week, that shouldn't be me. I should stand out, be something the Capitol will never forget for the years to come. To make a difference for future tributes that they can rise up against accepting themselves as small, useless pawns in the President Pitch's continuous game of Chess. To be more than just a tribute. I may no longer be the King of New York for now I have a better name, a better title that will now and forever be apart of who I am no longer how much time I have left to live. Alex, the Lion of Fire.

And the second thing that happened was the realization of just how stupidly oblivious I am. I had looked over at Gia as her interview played out and saw that the jaguar sat on the complete opposite side of the room, huddling into the farthest part of her chair as if putting as much space between us as possible. And suddenly something clicks, like a misshapen piece of a jigsaw puzzle was finally put into place to reveal a rather embarrassing revelation. Speaking of being just like the other tributes throughout the years, I resemble them in my behavior. Smiling, acting friendly, cracking a few jokes. I did nothing but copy off of those before me while Gia gave me something more, something for those watching to see a new being write a fresh page of a different story into the ever-growing book of the Hunger Games. She made me stand out, she gave me a spark. A spark that will burn away the obsolete manners of your average, ordinary tribute and into an inferno of a celebrity. Someone to remember for generations to come. Instead of giving herself the advantage of this popularity, she gave it to me. Me of all people.

God! Why am I so stupid?

After that, it's a bit of a blur. Everyone and everything passing by me looking fuzzy and distorted as if they were traveling through a fog. I'm not sure why I'm so out of it, but for the time being it doesn't matter. Not when my the length of my life is undetermined. I know one thing for sure, though. When Gia and I were sent to bed, the female cat went straight to her room and slammed the door so fast she nearly chopped off the tip of her tail. She's been so skittish all night, and it's all because of me. I would apologize if it weren't for the fact that she may or may not kill in less than 12 hours so I go to my bed and lay awake for the rest of the night.

In the morning, I sluggishly slip into an outfit layer aside for me by some Avox. Some cargo pants, a black shirt made of wool, and a forest green jacket with multiple pockets in the shoulders and arms. Right as I reach for the door, it is opened by an unmistakably familiar, black hand that is attached to the face of the monkey servant. My heart jumps into my throat and struggling to breathe. He stares back for a minute and ducks his head bashfully, squeezing his way past me and into the room where he starts to make the bed.

I may be too much of a coward to apologize for my actions to Gia, but I can't put off this one for him. I will never get the chance to, and after what I did to him all those years ago he deserves it.

"Hey," I squeak out. He inclines his head, but keeps his gaze focused on his task. "I'm sorry. For everything." I say. I take a deep breath through my nose. I can feel those river blue orbs on me, penetrating through my very bones and into my soul. I don't dare to look back. I make it out of there before he can try to respond. Not that he can, more like react.

This is a mistake because as soon as I get out I'm bombarded by a teary-eyed Tooth Fairy who instantly gives me one of the biggest, rib-crushing hugs I've ever received. She pulls back after a very long, suffocating minute and holds me at an arm lengths away. She straightens the lapels of my jacket and dusts off a nonexistent speck of lint.

"It has been an honor...being your mentor." She says in a hoarse voice. Her amethyst eyes are bloodshot and puffy from what can only be crying.

Wait! Why is she crying over me? I mean, she only met me, walked me through everything I needed to know for our training and interviews, took care of me, made sure I had everything I needed to be comfortable-

Holy shit!

Over the course of this entire week, she had grown attached to me like a mother taking care of her offspring. And I, being the stubborn yet fear-stricken person I was, practically imprinted on her like a newborn kit. Who wouldn't if you were being watched over by such a motherly figure? And now she has to witness not one, but two of her 'adoptive' children get murdered before her very eyes.

How many times has she drawn a name from those glass bowls from our district and introduced herself to two starved, frightened kids? How many times had she welcomed them into her open arms to nurture and love only to be taken away from her in the blink of an eye? How many tears has she cried over her lost, dead children ever since she was employed in the Hunger Games? While the majority of the population in Capitol enjoy their silly lives of fashion and entertainment, this singular woman has to endure the heartbreak of a grieving mother year after year.

I pull the winged woman back into my arms and embrace her with a new understanding. She doesn't push away like a certain someone would—*cough* me *cough*— but instead wraps her thin arms around me like she had before.

Was this how my mother felt before I left District 12? How many mothers have hugged their children for the very last time knowing that they had spent their lives hoping that their beloved children would never get picked for the Games only for that nightmare to come to life? How many?

Reluctantly, I have to pull away and move on before I start to cry myself. As I go to leave, she places her delicate hands on my shoulders, a firm look in her violet saucers.

"Be brave." She says in a hushed whisper, voice on the verge of breaking like a cracked statue of pure glass. I nod affirmatively, not sure if I do it out of instinct or actual will. She lets me go and I am blindly led to an aircraft that seem to come out of nowhere. It's only when I board onto it that I realize that I was brought to the roof by somebody. And that somebody was Gobber. My memory hasn't been the sharpest lately, as you know. But the last thing I heard from the burly man was a single sentence. A single phrase that was once used for mockery, but is now used for assurance and strength.

Don't die, he had said. Don't die. No matter how many times I hear that from the blond man, I'm not so sure I can return the favor of promising him my fate. I cannot ensure that I will come out of this alive and he knows it, so what's the point of advising me so?

I'm so numb from the shock of this morning that I hardly feel Megamind buckle me in or see him sit himself down across from me. But I know he's there and that's what brings me back to the present. A man comes by with a tray and a needle and starts to ready it. The gloved fingers, the long syringe, the intoxicating color glowing faintly in the glass vial is too much of a reminder of what brought me here in the first place. The soldiers gathering and killing animals, capturing some as prisoners and eliminating those that were supposedly unworthy for their task. Such as my father. The man moves to puncture a spot on my neck with the instrument and I instantly flinch away. Megamind gets the gist that I'm not too jazzed about having some unknown thing being inserted into my body because he appears right by my side telling reassuring me to calm down and to breathe in, and then breathe out. I do as he says, inhaling as much oxygen through my nostrils and slowly releasing it out of my mouth. My thudding heart is now a peaceful thrumming, like the soft beating of a drum.

"W-What is th-that?" I stutter, my nerves still jumping in my skin.

"This is a tracking device. We put these inside out tributes so that we know where they are in the arena." The man says in monotone. "Wouldn't want to lose one of you, now would we?" He comments wryly. And without warning, he stabs the metal point into the flesh of my nape and I groan on contact. But as soon as it's there, it's gone. The flight is short and quiet and it stays that way when we descend a winding staircase and walk into a dim room with two chairs and breakfast on a wooden table. I probably should eat so that I don't go to bed hungry if I lack any food resources on my first day—that is if I don't die on the first day—but I only manage to nibble on a biscuit and sip on some water occasionally. Megamind watches me with an aura of tranquility and sound of mind. I wish I could say the same for myself, but in case you haven't noticed I haven't exactly been myself ever since last night so that pretty much proves that I'm scared to death… or just losing my marbles. Both possibilities stink.

Suddenly, a platform the size of a manhole cover pops out of the ground and clicks into place. Megamind escorts me to it because I am unable to move on my own accord. If it were up to me, I would command some powerful being who resides up in the heavens to split the earth below me and swallow me whole. But I find myself standing on the platform, eyes set forward as Megamind fiddles with my outfit like Tooth had earlier. I only look down when something yellow shines up at me. Pinched in between Megamind's slim, black leather fingers is my mockingjay pin. How had I forgotten about it?

"Where did you get that?" I ask, stunned.

"It was unfortunately forgotten on one of your outfits you had worn not so long ago. Thought it would be a pity if it was misplaced." He says, pinning the golden adornment onto a breast pocket where it shines under fluorescent light that is embedded in the roof of the ceiling, the light creating a halo of a golden shine on my mane. I smile at him, grateful that out of all the people in the world who could've been my stylist it was him. This man with skin the color of the Caribbean waters and loves his black leather wardrobe with metal spikes and custom seal leather boots with his knack for tinkering. I couldn't have asked for anyone more queer and more brilliant than him.

"Can I let you in on a little secret?" He asks, a mischievous grin etching his lips. I nod, of course. "I may not be allowed to bet, but if I were my money would be on you."

I chuckle, his wit and humor a shred of hope on this tedious day. "Really?"

"Really."

"Well then, I guess that I'll just have to put your vote into consideration when I'm out there." I say. "Wouldn't want to disappoint you."

"You could never disappoint me." He says, a grim expression showing through his once jovial features. "Because you are Alex, the Lion of Fire."

A bell goes off above me and a glass tube slides down with a hiss. Megamind takes a step back and clasps his hands in front of him. When the the glass cylinder is in place, I begin to rise and watch in mild panic as the blue man is blocked out of my vision. His absence leaves a sort of aching in my sternum, but I have no time to dwell on it as I emerge into a world of pure light. My eyes adjust after a moment, and I see that I have entered a realm of lush green jungle with a plain filled with stretching, yellow blades of grass swaying in the gentle breeze. It looks exactly like a reserve on Africa and he blow hits home.

Of course the Gamemakers had to choose this kind of land for this years tributes.

Tributes emerge on my sides in a ring around a giant horn that is he Cornucopia. It vaguely looks like something you'd see in those ancient Viking texts where they have stories and tales of dragons and monsters lurking the land. This one resembles a large beast with polished scales the size of my paw and a gaping void for a mouth, he lips curled back to reveal rows of bronze teeth studded in its metal gums. Inside are stocks of supplies scattered before the mighty statue: crates overflowing with bushels of dried food, bags with other necessities such as blankets and extra clothing, and most importantly: weapons. The better the object, the deeper in the pile. The less significant the object, the farther out it is. I scan it quickly and that's when I catch sight of a bow. A length of curled, polished silver with a pale, thin string tied on its ends just sitting there waiting for me.

I'm going to get it.

You're probably thinking that I'm out of my mind for planning to do something so rash and—let's face it—idiotic when I can easily run away and avoid the fight. There's a little voice in my head who is saying that it's a bad idea, but I can barely hear it over the even louder voice screaming, "Grab the bow and whatever other shit you can grab!" I swivel my head around to see who else is planning on raiding the Cornucopia. At least three quarters of the people are already preparing to run, and the other third are shifting on their plates in uncertainty. In that group is Gia who shakes her head vigorously as if she knows what I'm doing. I do my best to ignore her, but her copper eyes make me second guess myself.

Should I really go with this? Is the best option for me?

Then a whine echoes out of the air and the legendary announcer, Chantel Dubois with her intense Franch accent booms out, "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games begin!"


	14. Ch 14 The First Day

As you may already know, I have a knack for cursing. I say this as if you haven't heard say literally almost every cuss word in the book. I picked up a thing or two from my surrounding peers from my time in District 12. I know that it never solves anything when you say things like "shit" or "dammit", but it does relieve some of the anxiety and frustration welling up inside of you. Anyone who has a potty mouth understands this. Especially for instances like when you stub your toe on the corner of a table, or when you wake up super early in the morning and change into some clothes and go about your day and it's not until three hours later that you find out that you have had your pants on backward the whole time.

No! This is not a real example. Well… maybe it is... Okay, fine! Yes! That actually happened! Are you happy? And that's not even the worst of it. Everyone and I mean literally everyone, hadn't told me that my pants were on backward. And they knew the whole freaking time! How could they?! I was still adjusting to wearing clothes and it was embarrassing enough strutting around town donned in human clothing. Now I have to live with the humiliation of being the lion who couldn't put his pants on right for an entire day.

And another appropriate time for cursing is when a knife nearly slices your head off by a little boy barely half your size. I know this from experience because at this very moment I am smack dab in the middle of a massacre consisting of teenagers who could easily be mistaken for mass murders.

Wanna know how? It's simple. Grow up in a tyranny nation where the leader of said nation forces innocent children to fight to the death once a year in a God-forsaken arena packed with traps and who knows what to kill and torture us all for the entertainment of a pathetic lot of fashion-loving divas that make up the population of the Capitol.

So what does one do in order to have some fleeting chance at winning this gory play of life and death? You train yourself to become the strongest, the toughest, the most badass tribute there can be to outlast the others. It's not so much of a choice as it is to be picked to fight in the Hunger Games. If you're that desperate to stay alive, then you do whatever it takes. It's a natural instinct.

I act on this instinct now as I dodge a blow from the boy tribute who is aggressively trying to stab and slice me with a blade. I'm not sure how I managed to get myself into this hand-to-hand combat with this kid, but it's happening, and I'm struggling to end it. He is fast, swiping the knife to and fro with impossible speed and I'm not sure I can keep this up.

I don't want to hurt him. I can't hurt him. That's the last thing I want to do. He's just a kid, twelve years old with an obvious limp in his leg from an unknown injury. He snarls and growls through baby teeth as he swings his blade yet again, barely grazing my chest. His silver-grey eyes are avidly bright behind his damp curls pressed to his forehead with sweat. I step back over and over again, hoping that he will stop or give up before I run into someone or something and possibly get us both killed. Stunned out of my wits, I trip over something and he looms over me, prepared to strike. I barely have enough time to raise my arm as some futile form of protection when he stops in mid-thrust. His grey eyes widen in shock and he gasps, slowly looking down at the arrow piercing through his chest, spouting blood onto his shirt. His knife falls to my feet and he too falls to the ground, eyes still open and a small trail of crimson trickles from his thin, parted lips.

I watch, horrified. His killer watches me, too. A girl I hadn't cared to remember by name also watches me with the bow and arrow I desired not so long ago are clutched in her grasp. She looks to be able to handle it despite the obvious trembling in her arms that can only be performed by amateur archers. Before I can get another round to duel with her or anyone else for that matter, I scoop up whatever is beneath me and run for it. The sounds of the battle continue as I race away from the fight. The clang of steel meeting steel, the grunting effort of combat, the ear-splitting cries of a fallen tribute, and the sickening cracks of bones breaking as weapons impale bodies, surrounds me in a chaotic, deadly chorus of war.

I run. I run, I run, I run, and I run. Never looking back. My paws a blur of golden brown below me, the wind whistling in my ears, tail flapping behind me.

I have to get out of here! I have to get out of here!

I know nothing at this point. Nothing except the numerous bloody deaths I had witnessed, where blood was spilled and lives were taken, wasn't a trick of the eyes or an illusion. It was real. It was all real.

I have to get out of here I have to get out of here I have to get out of here!

I run for an eternity. Never slowing down, never looking back. Lungs burning, tongue lapping, legs pedaling, mind reeling. It's painful in the physical sense, but I don't care. I don't care. As long as I can put as much distance between me and the Cornucopia, I couldn't care less what my body endures.

I have to get out of here I have to get out of here I have to get out of here get out of here get out of here!

In my hysteria, I trip on an ingrown root and tumble down a hill, rolling and rolling until I abruptly stop at the bottom. I lay there, motionless and breathless, brain on hyperdrive.

I have to get out of here I have to get out of here! Let me out of here! Let me out!

I can't think! I can't breathe! Oh God! What the hell is wrong with me?! Let me out let me out let me out LET ME FUCKING OUT! Gotta get out of here have to get out of here let me out of here!

"Just calm down, Alex." A distant, foreign voice echoes in my head. "Calm down."

I can't calm down! I can't fucking calm down! I can't! I have to get out of here have to get out of here! LET ME OUT OF HERE! It's not until after that bout I realize I said that out loud. I don't care! I don't fucking care! I have to get out of here have to get out of here have to get out of here let me out of here! Let me out of here!

"Just breath." The voice continues to reassure. "Remember what Megamind did for you when you were scared?"

Okay okay. That's a good plan. Very good plan. I can do that. I can do that. Okay, Megamind… What did Megamind do when I was scared? I rack my brain for memories, trying my hardest to push the irradical thoughts out of my conscience to make room for logic, however small it is. He...he…was there for me when I was getting my tracker implanted. He helped me calm down enough to let the man take the shot. And he did make me relax a little before the interviews. And in the Opening Ceremony.

Megamind would want me to take this in slowly. To focus on what is before me and not on what is behind me. That is the way of the wild. Keep moving forward, never back. No matter how traumatizing, no matter how horrific the Games are—especially within the past ten minutes—, I still have to be strong. I must be strong.

I gulp air by the mouthful, releasing it through my flared nostrils. Ever so slowly, my heart calms to a steady beat from the erratic thumping, as if it were jumping on a trampoline. I stand to my feet shakily and lean against a tree. Cool, knitted moss armors the fat trunk, surprisingly soft and comforting.

Then out of nowhere, another mental voice pitches in. One that is angry and harsh, their words hot as they flit around in the confines of my skull like hot flecks of ash, burning flesh when it touches the walls of my subconscious. "Oh boo hoo!" It says, "So a few people died in front of you. Big deal! They meant nothing to you. Absolutely nothing! You didn't know them, you didn't meet them, you didn't even pay attention to them." It barks, getting louder and louder till I have to clutch my skull so that it won't implode on itself. "Cry me a river, build a bridge, and get the fuck over it! Get your sorry ass up and at'em before the Gamemakers decide to blow you to smithereens for being a weak ass wuss. Are you just going to sit there and weep like a fucking baby in front of your entire country, or are you going to stand up and walk it off? Your move."

The first thing I got out of that lecture is that I'm seriously considering that I might be going insane. Hearing voices like this is most definitely not a healthy sign. If I ever manage to get out of here alive, the first thing I want to do is see a psychologist.

And the second thing was that the angry voice was right. It was 100%, without a doubt, more than right. It's not like it was the first time I've seen death. I hunt for a living, in case you haven't noticed. So I shouldn't be freaking out like this. I should be rational and smart, cold-hearted even. Lives are on the line, so there's no necessity to put feelings and emotions into thought.

After I'm sure that I won't give myself another aneurysm of some sort, I scoop up my supplies—which just so happens to be a single backpack along with the curly-haired boy's forgotten knife—and head out. It's not safe to stay in the same place for too long, especially with weapon-wielding teenagers out for blood. My best bet is to move away from the Cornucopia while I have the advantage of keeping my distance. So I begin my journey.

A few hours have passed and it's already getting dark. I have been heading to what I assume to be south, descending a steep hill riddled with vines and clusters of green, mossy trees. The humidity and exertion of hiking all day have me panting heavily, a line of sweat tickling my temples and neck. My tongue is dry and coarse, like the surface of sandpaper, and I am dying of dehydration. Not yet anyway. I have been searching for a pond or a stream to quench my thirst ever since I caught my bearings and so far: nothing. There is absolutely nothing that runs with even the smallest of trickles of water. How could such a dense jungle with luscious vegetation be so fruitful but have absolutely no water? It's ridiculous.

Yet it's late, and I'm not planning on being someone's next victim. I look for a place to rest for the night. The ground will leave me vulnerable to creatures that lurk around (including tributes) waiting for their prey to fall asleep, so my best bet is to bunk in a tree. I'm not so much of a climber as I am a swimmer, and I don't fancy swimming. Yet I make it to a decent height where groups of fat leaves conceal me in their shadows easily enough. The branches seem sturdy enough to uphold a lion, which is more than I could ever ask for. It's not much, but it'll do. I take this time to rummage through my new belongings and come to find a sleeping bag, a plastic sandwich bag of dried fruits, a box of salty crackers, a water bottle with some iodine, and most importantly a knife. Great, now I've got two knives. Bonus! Yet no water. I sigh disappointedly at the empty water bottle, imagining clear liquid filling the emptiness magically as if summoned by a genie.

My stomach rumbles, clearly begging for something to eat. I have to conserve what little I have if I want to make it out of here alive--at least for the next few days--so I snack on a slice of peach and two crackers, wishing I had something to wash it down with. I unroll the sleeping bag and squeeze my way in. It definitely wasn't made for large cats like me. The night is cold and bitter. Even with my thick fur, I shiver. I'm just glad I have something to provide some warmth.

How many tributes are trying to sleep through the frigid night with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the ground at their feet? How many have failed to get the needed supplies to make it through their first night in the arena? How many fear that they'll freeze to death before they could've made it past the first day of the Hunger Games? Poor guys.

Suddenly the anthem plays and a beacon of light shines through the sky like the beam of the movie theater projector. I watch through the thicket of the tree's leaves as names and faces flash across the black canvas, hoping upon hope a certain someone doesn't show up. The boy with the limp is first as they go down the line. Another boy from District 6, the girl with the arrows pops up from District 10, and a handful of other unfortunate souls. I count them off in my head. One, two, three… ten. Ten down, 14 to go.

Right now, there are ten families mourning the deaths of their children. Ten groups of friends crying, huddled together over the loss of their friend. Ten innocent children who were mercilessly killed before the entire nation of Panem. A nation that not only allow this violence to take place but welcomes it. Enforce it. And all because our ancestors had riled up against them for being what they are; tyrants. So as given punishment, the children of these rebels must suffer at the hands of our leaders, paying the endless punishments for the actions of our previous districts. Punish the blameless. That's how it goes nowadays.

Sick, isn't it? Welcome to my world.

I tie the last knot of the rope wrapped around my waist and pull the length of sheer fabric up to my cheek. You're probably wondering why I'm about to sleep tied to a tree. Well as you know, I'm no expert when it comes to tree housing, but I do know basic physics. Take an approximately 400 lb lion and put him up in a tree, a good, solid 30-35 feet up in the air. What happens if the lion was to take a nap and—uh oh, rolls over in his sleep and falls? Splat! A broken neck and a few cracked ribs, that's what! I'm not entirely sure if that's what would actually happen, but I'm not taking any chances. This is the Hunger Games. You don't get a say in whether or not you live tomorrow, so you do your best to stay alive in the present. In this case, it's not falling out of a tree in the middle of the night.

I'm just about to doze off when the snapping of twigs jerks me upright. Has someone spotted me? Is someone trying to creep up on me and kill me in my sleep? I think frantically.

No. No one is around. There is absolutely nothing that could have startled me. I squint my eyes to pierce through the darkness in a quest to find whatever made the noise. If I'm not mistaken, it's close by. Too close for comfort.

There! A light has flickered. Small and yellow, like the spark of flint against a stone. There it is again! This time, the flicker of yellow grows into a small fire and a figure sits in front of it. Someone has lit a campfire.

You've gotta be shitting me?! Do they not know that they practically just shot fireworks into the sky screaming, "Come and get me!", drawing murderous tributes to them in hot pursuit to take down another one of their kind? Clearly not. I mean, I know it's cold and all, but seriously?! They just had to send a beacon of reckoning to the others as if they were begging to be killed. And right next to me!

They may not know it (obviously), but they will pay for their ignorance. And the payment comes sooner than expected. In a matter of seconds, the trampling of feet comes closer and closer until they have reached the person by the fire. I can see their shadows dance in the underbrush, blurred and smoky as they sway and twitch like the branches of a willow tree caught in the thick of a windstorm. Voices are heard, most threatening and one small, frightened one squeaking for mercy. I watch in stunned silence, engrossed in the scene that is taking place not thirty feet away from my perch. One shadow that dwarfs the others in size takes something long and sharp from their belt, glinting silver in the pale moonlight. The discovered victim's pleading have grown louder and more hysterical. The shadow raises an arm and brings it down in a swish movement that meets the cries for help. Then there's the scream. A blood curdling, ear ringing scream that echoes throughout the jungle. A shrieking of pure agony like that of a cursed banshee. It flows through my ears and bounces around my cranium until it's a continuous melody of complete and utter desperation and terror singing in my head.

The group hastily put out the fire and start making their way in my direction. For a second, I'm scared that they have found me and will make me their next target. Instead, I watch as they pass right underneath me. There has to be at least five of them, both human and animal alike, girls and boys. They smell of sweat, blood, and smoke. Some chatter amongst one another, others remain silent and watch their surroundings. Thankfully, they don't think to look up where they could easily spot me. They are the Careers. Each one a tribute who is probably capable enough to survive on their own since a majority of their lives were wasted away for this time in the Hunger Games, but have made a pact to become allies with other tributes. They mainly consist of tributes from the higher districts, the ones that have the best chance at winning. Together, they pick off their opponents one by one in the never-ending hunt for the crown of the Victor, eliminating the competition to earn their place at the throne.

I nearly slip off my branch at the sight of her. She trails at the end of the pack, smaller and quieter than the others. My lungs immediately stop working as if I had already fallen out of the tree and was winded on impact, now lying on the ground desperately trying to gasp for air like a fish out of water.

How could she?! How the actual hell could she?! After everything we've been through together, she has the audacity to go behind my back and make allies with the enemy. To stab me in the back and practically throw away everything we had done to be where we are now. Gia. Sweet, caring, forgiving Gia, has made allegiance to the Careers. A flare of anger spikes through my being and something snaps, like the snip of the scissors of the Fates from Greek Mythology taking the life of another soul to the Underworld. I curse under my breath.

Just… how could she?! After all the training hours, all the dinners of small talk, all the ceremonies in the Capitol, she has disconnected our mutual trust. I shouldn't be surprised. I knew from the very beginning not to trust her, to keep my distance because I knew for a fact that she would be trouble. But did I listen? NooOOooOO. Instead, my dumbass self gave into her faux performance, her acting of being a trustworthy friend who actually turns out to be apart of the mob of power-hungry individuals her murder innocent people to raise the stakes for themselves was too good to not believe in. I get that there can only be one of us who makes it out of here with our life, but betraying your own tribute just so that you can be favored and protected by others who are stronger and faster, even for a short time, is just despicable.

They pass without ever having the suspicion that a lion resides just above their heads. I wait until they leave and finally heave a big, possibly all too loud breath of air out of my lungs and refill them with oxygen. A distant sound like the whirring of a machine sounds off behind me and I look over to where the now-deceased tribute was found and see a metal claw materialize from the sky and pluck a limp body up into the air. And just as randomly and quickly as it had appeared, it disappears in a canopy of trees. I can no longer see the claw take the fallen tribute away to be prepped for their death ritual that will be held in their designated district miles away from where they were killed.

It's a tragic event, really. For as long as I can remember, the funerals for annual tributes that were held in District 12 were as distraught and depressed as they could be. Nothing spectacular has ever happened at them; a group of men and male animals would heft the pair of caskets on their shoulders and carry them through town—my first time doing it was just last year. In that ceremony, not only did I feel the weight of the polished oak coffin confining the child on my back but also the eyes of my people watching me perform this feat of respect and honor for another murdered innocent. The rest of the town would watch from the sidewalks without a word to say to pay their respects to the dead teenagers. Then we took the caskets to the local cemetery where the families of the tributes would place the bodies into the ground and buried. And then, slowly, people would dissipate as the hours ticked away until only the family members remained. And then they would leave.

I make a silent prayer for the soul that was so mercilessly taken along with the boy with grey eyes and a limp and curl into my sleeping bag where I hope to get some sleep. I stay awake for the rest of the night.


	15. Ch 15 Water’s Sweet but Blood is Thicker

Have you ever had something for a short period of time and took it for granted? Like vacations, candy, make out sessions, and coffee?

Whether or not you're willing to fess up and admit that you have done so on a number of occasions within the time you've spent on the face of this planet, it's safe to say that it's something everyone does. Everyone, and I mean everyone, doesn't see the true value of what they possess until it's truly gone. Trust me on this.

God how I miss coffee.

I would kill for a cup right about now. And seeing that I'm in the arena, murder over something as small and insignificant as coffee is actually not that uncommon. I've seen tributes from the past fight to the death over a bread roll. Not because the roll was of some great benefit or power aside from saving them from starving to death. And I'm only complaining like a sissy because I can.

Can you blame me?

I didn't think so.

My head throbs like something fierce, as if it's being banged on by a hammer dead set on smashing a nail through my skull. I've tried to assuage it by rubbing my temples with my fingertips, which didn't help. I then tried eating some more of those dried fruits and a few crackers to see if it would numb the pain. That did absolutely nothing. And finally, I tried taking my mind off of my coarse tongue and scratchy throat parched from any form of liquid by busying myself with small tasks such as chewing on bark and braiding vines together into ropes. Can't say it worked because after all of that, my cranium is screaming in agony. And it only gets worse whenever I look up at the sun.

No! I swear to God I'm not doing it on purpose. Seriously, who does that?

The only reason I risk going blind is because I am trying to see where exactly I am. The position of the sun tells me it's still morning, which means I have a full day of searching to do. As far as I can tell, I'm still heading south and still descending this never ending hill. Whatever lies at the bottom of this plateau is my goal. Water is at the top of my list, then food, and then possibly shelter. All water leads downhill, and therefore that's where I must go.

Dammit! I still miss it.

I miss it. I miss it so much it's not even funny. Oh, all those times I poured myself a mug and sprinkled spoonful after spoonful of starch white sugar and copious amounts of creamer into the newly golden liquid. The tiny spoon clinking musically against the polished porcelain inside of the cup, the thin tendrils of steam curling through the air and up into my face, gently soaking my nose in perspiration that was pleasantly warm. The absolutely awesomely bittersweet taste of the morning beverage filling me with insurmountable joy—

…

I think I have a problem.

Well, consider me an addict because right at this moment I'm pretty sure some invisible being is chopping my head open with an axe and splitting into the worst headache I have ever had.

If it isn't the lack of coffee being as unbearable as it is, imagine being dehydrated and having trouble thinking due to it. We lions can actually go at least four to five days without water and function properly and when we do drink, we take to it like moths to a flame. Yet I am no ordinary lion, in case you haven't noticed. Back in District 12, I used to drink gallon after gallon because I had this unexplainable fear that one day we'd run out. Not in water supply, specifically. It was more or less out of fear of running out of food and water altogether. We spent our first year in District 12 on the brink of starvation; miserable, hungry, and poor; because of the absence of said necessities and I didn't want to go through it again. Gloria made it a daily routine to argue with me about the amount of stuff I would bring in from my hunts, complaining that I'd get too much and that I ate as if it were my last time eating. I defended by saying that it would be if I didn't provide us with our meals. That about shut her up.

This sucks.

I thought that my biggest and most severe enemy would be the tributes hunting me down for the kill. That my ultimate challenge was to battle my way out of every duel with another grave tribute to live to see the sun again. But nooOOooOO. My nemesis isn't the hordes of teenagers scouring the arena to savagely maim and murder me. It's this goddamn stupid, endless, humid jungle that has nothing to offer a survivalist but trees, vines, and utterly no water.

And just my luck.

My stomach grumbles mulishy, pleading on its knees for sustenance. All I have are two-thirds of a box of crackers and half a bag of fruit left. It won't due. My body basically requires the constant intake of protein. Without it…

Oh no! No no no no no no no no no! Not again! Anything but that! I can't go savage! Not after what happened last time.

Wait! You don't know? You don't know about the incident? In Madagascar?

Yes?

No?

Oh, what the hell. I'll tell you.

A long time ago—it was actually about 4 years ago—life was sweet and simple in the Central Park Zoo. I lived like a king in my beloved zoo, adored and loved by all of my people. That is until we were transferred by boat because a certain someone had this fantasy of going to the wild. While I was in the middle of a disagreement between Marty at the moment, something happened and we were sent catapulting into the sea. Later we all ended up on the same island—aka Madagascar—and came upon an entire civilization of lemurs all led by their ring tail king, Julien. They welcomed us into their home as long we—or more accurately—I protected them from the dreaded foosas. It all started so well. We had a party, laughed, danced, sang, and all that jazz. But then it happened. I started experiencing my first ever famine that inevitably took over my mind. The deficiency of food was turning me into a blood hungry, ravaging monster trying to eat my friends. In the end, I managed to get straightened out and switched my diet from slabs of steak to fish.

Yet after all of that, I was—er, am—still worried about going off the rails crazy and devouring everything in my path, including those closest to me. I know it sounds dark and depressing, but it's the truth. When I starve, my blood sugar gets too low and I start to get a little… how do I say this… aggressive. We've had a quite a few false alarms and instances where it actually happened. Each time I was scared out of my wits. I'd run off into the woods, lost in the midst of the forest to keep them all safe from me. I had to get away from Marty, Melman, Gloria, and everyone else in the Seam. Sometimes I'd wake up in the forest to find myself drenched in blood and a mutilated corpse by my side. Other times I was half drowned in a lake. I can't tell how many times I've had nightmares of the animals I've killed and the flashbacks of the terrible acts I committed when I was all out of sorts.

Tigress would come and get me and help clean me up before taking me back into town. No words of comfort were said, no hugs were given, no consultation was rehearsed. She was straight forward and stern, and it was then that I appreciated how she didn't sugarcoat how absolutely pathetic and horrible I was.

Although the others constantly reminded me that they are no longer afraid of me possibly murdering them, that didn't mean I wasn't the least bit terrified of losing them, especially if it was my fault. I just couldn't live with the guilt and mortification of it.

I can already feel the adrenaline in my body arousing, my body twitching with unspent energy. I can't go savage. Not here, not now. Not in front of millions of people watching me along with the rest of the tributes who may just become my lunch. I cannot give them the pleasure of watching their so-called celebrity lose his mind and and gobble up all of these poor kids, whether they deserve it or not. But that's another matter we don't need to discuss.

I need to find a water source and fast!

The rest of the day is wasted away in this quest for water. I travel for miles on end, still fidgeting with vines and gnawing on strips of bark. The soft, stringy meat of the tree is moist which at least dampens my throat and gives my mouth something to do, so I keep it up until my jaw is sore.

Tigress taught me this. Said it was a travelling merchant's old trick she learned when she was younger. She had tested it once when she was sent off to ward off bandits and marauders in far away land and found it quite enjoyable. Sometimes, when we used to go into uncharted areas in our beloved forest, we would share a few pieces of some aspen to pass the time. I'd watch her face scrunch up in disgust when she took a nibble as if she had licked the inside of a lemon. She didn't say it, but she was silently complaining that the particular choice of tree wasn't to her liking. She even mentioned that her personal favorite was bark from the Maidenhair tree. To her, it was much sweeter and was usually used to make her favorite kind of syrup, stickier and more savory than anything any maple tree could produce.

Sunset approaches and by this time I think I might explode. Every so often I find myself yearning to get on all fours and take a quick sprint, my very being beseeching for some of the built up exertion to be eased. I refuse and now my body is literally fighting with my brain.

The scents and the sounds of the jungle have enhanced, too. I can hear everything; the flutter of a distant bird's wings, the trampling of a dear from a few miles away. Vegetation, soil, and sweat are a sharp incense to my nostrils.

Oh come on, Gobber! Haven't I suffered enough on this shitty day?!Gobber, my asshat of a mentor, is in charge of the gifts provided to me by my sponsors (if I have any) and oh-so adoring fans. They raise the money to buy a piece of equipment or food item and send it to me in my time of need. Yet as the days drag on and the Hunger Games get more intense, the prices for the supplied gifts get higher and higher until only the richest of the rich and wealthiest of the wealthy can afford it. Gobber, that douchebag, is the one who coordinates said gifts and decides when I receive these desirables. And for some unknown reason, he hasn't taken the time to give the one thing I need the most; water and actual food.

Is he evading my pleas on purpose? Does he want to torment me? I wouldn't be surprised.

Either that or he's too drunk to work with the sponsors and correlate exactly what he should do.

Still not surprised.

But he was sobering up for this. The entire time we were in the Training Center, he avoided liquor as much as possible. Not that he didn't cheat because I caught him taking a sip from his flask more than once. Yet even still, he managed to somewhat stick to his promise of having a clear mind when we are in the arena. And knowing Tooth, his second in command, she is going above and beyond to make sure we have a moderate mentor who is at least a little sensible.

Is he waiting till I kill something with my bare paws to render a gift? Does he want me to put on some kind of show to amuse my audience? What more could he want from me?!

Then it hits me just as I'm sitting down at the base of a tree trunk. He isn't sending anything because he of all people won't waste the generous donations of the viewers on something as valuable as water if I already have it. Or I am close to having. So that means water is nearby, and if I'm going to live to see tomorrow, I have to get off my ass and find it myself.

I stand up, my legs a little more wobbly than I expected, and brush dirt off my trousers as I start this whole trip over again.

Not gonna lie, the little spurt of motivation was temporary. I give up within twenty minutes. Sorry guys. My body so drained of nutrients that it feels like my stomach has been hollowed out with a giant spoon, howling grumbles echoing through the emptiness of my tummy. It hurts so much I have to clutch it just to stay upright.

I suddenly trip on something and plummet to the ground with a flop. I bang my head onto the ground, hard.

"OH SHIT!" I screech out.

What had I tripped on?I don't care to figure it out.

I sigh deeply, fed up with this entire day. The ground is cool and soft, softer than it should be. Bundles of vines press into my stomach, offering a much appreciated pressure to the sunken in torso. An upgrown root rams into my cheek and another into my shoulder, scraping through the flesh with its rough outer layer. Oddly enough, it's comfortable, so comfortable that it's practically inviting me to stay. I decide to take a nap.

Why not?

I'm tired and hungry and miserable. If anything, I deserve a little rest. I haven't slept in two days and it's showing.

I say that as if you haven't noticed.

I don't think about what to do if someone discovers me and kills me in my sleep. I don't think to possibly arm myself with one or both of my knives. I am too worn out for that.

Instead, I focus on the sounds around me. Mother Nature is playing a symphony with all her creations in the orchestra and I have a front row seat to hear it. Birds sing, insects buzz, wind whistles and rustles the groves of leaves above my head. And there's a strange chiming sort of sound; mellow and smooth, almost bubbly.

I move my arm to rest under my head and a squelching noise emits from the ground. I glance up to see mud smearing the sleeve of my jacket.

I hate mud. It's dirty, mushy, and grainy. And it tastes horrible!

Don't ask how I know.

It was always a bad day when the woods were swamped in mounds of sog. Coming home with my feet and pant legs soaked with moisture and soil was the worst, and my mom's and Gloria's grumblings of how they just mopped the floors when I trekked in muddy paw prints didn't lift my spirits. It wasn't my fault the world decided to rain cats and dogs and bury me to my knees in slop.

Mud. Mud? Mud.

…

HOLY SHIT!!! MUD!!!

Mud means water.

Water!

I jerk upright and not a mere three yards in front of me is a stream, a bubbling brook gently passing through the jungle. It is one of many veins of the main water source that lies somewhere in the tangle of this jungle. How I had not seen it before is unbeknownst to me, but I crawl to the small riverbed and dip my paw into the cool water to test and see if it's a mirage.

Real. It's real!

OH, HELL YEAH!

I want to dunk my head into it, to be submerged into this liquid salvation and swallow as much of it as possible. But what little common sense I have left holds me back. For all I know, this stream could be infused with some kind of virus or sickness that could kill me within seconds.

There's only one way to find out.

I scramble to get my bag off of my shoulder and pull out the empty water bottle. I squeeze a few drops of iodine into it after I fill it to the brim with some of the sparkling water and wait a few minutes. After I'm sure it's sanitized, I put the lip of said bottle to my cracked lips and drink. It's sweet as honey and runs down my throat smoothly, washing away the droughtiness of my mouth and replenishes my tongue from it swollen state. I down the entire thing in a single gulp and fill it once more, put some more iodine into it, wait, and drink. I repeat this process until I cannot hold any more, my insides threatening to burst like a rupturing dam.

Much better.

Now all I need is something to eat and I can finally say that I'm not a total goner.

Is that a fish?!

Shit! It is!!!

With a revived energy, I leap into the water and snag the fish by its slimy tail. It wriggles and writhes in my grasp, but I am determined to keep it steady. Without another moment to lose, I bite it's head straight off and it stops moving altogether.

Oh… oh God. It's better than I could have ever imagined. The absolute splendor of actual food and flavor is just… oh shit! This is amazing.

Take my word for it, eating fish raw and in such a ravening manner isn't my first choice. But nearly turning into a wild feral predator in an arena filming us tributes has made me take desperate measures. And there really isn't anything bad about eating the head of a fish. I like it actually.

Fun fact for you: the meat of a fish's head has more flavor than the rest of its body.

I eat the rest of the fish in a minute tops, sucking the bones dry. I look up and witness small schools of fish swimming downstream. You have absolutely no idea just how happy I am to see all the silvery bodies glinting in the setting sun. It was like something you see in a painting that revolutionized art. I nearly cry at the sight.

For the next hour, I fish in that tiny river, catching and devouring fish after fish.

Have I ever explained my love for fishing?

Well then you're in for a treat. Fishing is so relaxing and peaceful. The faith one has in casting a line and patiently waiting for a fish to snag onto the hook makes the world a little less awful. As if the horrors and stress of reality is somewhere else and your in your own kind of world where your only concern is losing your bait or a string of the pole snapping. The excitement of reeling in said fish is beyond explaining. It is a battle between your wit and the animal's and I absolutely love it. If you succeed, you get a meal. If not, there's always a next time.

Here, I don't have any fishing gear aside from my own two paws. If I had a bow and arrow I could efficiently kill and catch a fish all in one without having to wrestle it out of water. Like killing two birds with one stone. I make do with what I have.

Who am I to complain, right?

The fish in the stream vary, if only somewhat. There are two types; the smaller, more lean ones are fast and are as slippery as an eel, bonier and are harder to catch. And the fat, slow ones are much easier to snatch up but grappling them is like trying to contain a slippery cat fighting for its life.

In all, I ate as many fish as I pleased and finally, finally, was full with a pile of fish bones to prove my prosperity. The sun goes down and I once again crash in a tree for the night. I can't help the smile that grows on my snout. I have food, water, and a place to sleep. What more could I ask for?

The anthem plays and I watch the death toll of the now deceased tributes light up the sky. Only two had lost their lives today. Twelve down and eleven to go.

I tuck myself into the sleeping bag and settle down to sleep.

Maybe the Hunger Games won't be so bad after all.


	16. Ch 16 Hallucinations and Hornets

It's pretty obvious that I am a sorry excuse for a survivalist.

Can I hunt? Yes.

Can I fish? Absolutely!

Can I trap? Sure.

But everything else is pretty much left unchecked on the list of necessary traits of making it out here in the great wilderness. Anything you can think of that requires a skill other than the ones said previously, I pretty much suck at. Nesting in trees, making camouflaged shelters, covering my tracks, lighting a campfire. Hell! I nearly died of dehydration because I couldn't find water which is _the _most important task of them all. It was a rookie's mistake.

It's a miracle I hadn't gotten killed all those years ago when I first arrived in District 12. I grew up in New York, for crying out loud! I was pampered since they brought me to the zoo and I grew up with everything served to me on a silver platter. Having this mindset that I would never have to lift a paw for any sort of manual labor and look at me now. A full-fledged, badass archer who gathered food for the starving people of the Seam and my family.

At first, I didn't know how to track for game. I would scare off prey, and I was still learning how to shoot with the bow and arrow. In all, if it wasn't for the old man and Tigress I wouldn't be here today.

Not sure if that's such a good thing since I'm stuck in a tree with a horde of Careers at the bottom trying to murder me in an arena that contains bloodhungry teenagers on the hunt for the Victor's Crown.

You heard me. I, Alex, am trapped 30 feet in the air with weapon-wielding maniacs catcalling and taunting me from down below.

How did this happen?

Like all things in life except for my own, it's simple. I was so careless that when I settled in for the night the other day, I chose the nearest tree instead of being picky with my options. Not one that would shield me from prying eyes or protect me from oncoming tributes. In fact, I picked a tree that has little to no foliage, leaving me right in the open for the world to see. And I somehow slept in, so I woke up just as I heard their trampling feet racing to me.

Yeah yeah. Lecture me later. I've got a mob of tributes to deal with right now.

I clutch the trunk of my tree, claws digging into the bark. The monster of a man from District 1, who I assume is the leader, tries to climb up the tree. If I were a little more polite with others I would have said that he had the perseverance and integrity of a winner, like those hard-working athletes who compete in the Olympics. The guy looks like he was made by the hands of gods to wrangle crocodiles and wild animals like the prodigal Legend of Tarzan. But I'm not, so I must say that it's hilarious when a branch breaks under his hands and he falls through grove after grove of branches and to the ground with a resonating _thwack! _A sickening part of me hopes that he had landed with a snapped neck so that I won't have to deal with him in the oncoming future. But unfortunately, he wheezes loudly and staggers to his feet, leaning heavily against my tree as he catches his breath.

So much for not having to deal with him.

A tall girl with short black hair steps forward and attempts to climb much like Tarzan (it's his nickname I just gave him) and she too falls back to the ground.

Let me paint a picture for you: 50' tree with a cluster of tributes at the bottom, each one averaging from 150-220 pounds. When they try to scale said tree, they fall at a certain height I cannot measure. But I do know that they can't get any higher than 15 feet. And yet me, a bigass 400 lb lion, is able to balance my way through the weak limbs without ever nearly plummeting to my death.

How can this be? Do I have some kind of superpower that enables me to stick to surfaces like Spider-Man?

Boy, I wish.

The truth of it is surprisingly straightforward: claws. My claws are like my very own, personal grappling hooks. They are what enable me to get this high without plunging off the thing branches I cautiously step on now.

Huh. Maybe I am like Spider-Man.

Another tribute grabs something from behind his back and before I know it, an arrow comes soaring upwards. I clamp my eyes shut and wait for the sharp arrowhead to strike me, for my body to finally fall out of the tree. And if the arrow doesn't kill me, surely the 30-foot drop will. But it doesn't come. I peak through half-squinted eyelids to see that the arrow never made it up to me. The boy growls in frustration and tries again. This time I watch and the arrow barely makes it up halfway before knocking into a branch or the trunk and falling to the ground. The others try and no improvement shows. Then, as a last resort, they try to throw rocks and daggers. I scamper up a few more feet and out of their reach.

Am I childish? Am I immature? Maybe… okay, you know what. Yeah. I am. So what do you think I do? I blow a raspberry and place my thumb on the tip of my nose, fingers wiggling mockingly. This results in a long ranting spree of colorful curse words from the group, specifically Tarzan. In the far back of said group, Gia watches me from my perch. A spike of hot anger courses through me and I frown at her.

"Get down here and fight like a man," Tarzan calls.

"I don't suppose I could convince you to come up here and fight like a lion, but-oh right!" I yell back. "You can't. Unless you want to fall on your ass in front of your little posé again."

He snarls up at me, flashing pearly white teeth Tooth herself would admire. "Why you goddamn sorry son of a bitch!"

"Whoa whoa whoa!" I wave my arms up to interrupt him. "Lower the profanity there, mister. Keep in mind, there are children watching." I point to a distant spot over the treetops, not exactly indicating to anyone specific but more to the generalization of kids watching the Hunger Games at home.

Gobber ought to be proud of me. I am risking my life here all the while being a comedian just so I can win over a sponsor or two, maybe even make the show a little more enjoyable than bloodbaths and brawls that are the usual sources of entertainment. If this doesn't benefit me in some form or way, then I'll… I don't know what I'll do. Drop the jokes and become a stone-cold killer? Maybe, but most likely not. What can I say? I have a clever, silver tongue and wield it happily.  
"Fine!" Tarzan nearly screams. "You can stay up there all you want, but sooner or later you're gonna have to come down here. And I'll be waiting." The others nod in agreement.

"Aw. You'll wait for me?" I say in a faux tone of delight. As if I want him around any longer than he needs to be. "That's so sweet." I glance down at Gia who hasn't said anything since they had arrived. "Hey, Gia! Looks like you got some competition." Even from my high vantage point, I can see all of their eyes widen. They weren't expecting that. "But don't worry. I'll save a kiss for both of you." I blow an air kiss at them and wave cutely much like Disney princesses do to their love interests. Tarzan roars with rage and the others try their best not to snicker. Gia turns away bashfully and I full-on laugh at their reactions. They're just so hilarious!

Eventually, Tarzan cools down and orders his little posse to set up camp. I observe them quietly, contemplating to myself, only speaking up to bark out to Tarzan, "Oh Romeo, Romeo. Where art thou Romeo?" Each time he goes into a fit that includes breaking fallen branches and long speeches of swearing till his face turns maroon. Looks like someone's got a temper. But I leave Gia alone. No way am I going to spend my free time that could be used for a much better cause than on making fun of my enemy, as tempting as it is.

I hate to admit it, but Tarzan is right. I may be safe in the confines of this singular tree, but soon enough I will need to come down. I will run out of food, water, and… what will I do if I have to use the restroom?

Oh no! I have to find a way to get out of this tree. I have to find a way to get around the Careers. But at the moment I am a mouse cornered by a hungry cat, my only refuge being a tiny pocket behind the wall.

The day passes rather quickly and before I know it, the anthem is playing. No one died today. I prepare to go to sleep after a dry dinner of the rest of the fruit and crackers, the sleeping bag crumpling loudly. The girl with short black hair stamps out the fire and they all settle down to hit the hay as well. The boy with the bow and arrow and Tarzan stay up for the first watch. It suddenly dawns on me that there's a way of getting out of here, and that's to jump out of this tree and to the next. If I had thought of it earlier, I wouldn't have been able to do so because the tributes would just follow me. I may be athletic, but I'm not that fast when it comes to running treetop to treetop. All I have to do now is wait for them to either fall asleep or are too drowsy to notice me.

An hour goes by and the sky is an inky dark blue. Flecks of ash fly upwards, drifting softly like snowflakes. Muted snores whistle from down below. Now's my chance. I stand up unsteadily, legs wobbling under the rubbery branches slightly. My sights are set on a tree a full 8 feet away. A bit of a jump, but I think I can make it. The only real obstacles are that I won't have any momentum to propel me forward and that I will most likely not have a quiet landing. If I'm lucky, I can make it from one tree to the next quicker that they can wake up. I take a deep breath through my nostrils and exhale through my mouth and without another thought, I swing my arms back and lunge forward. There's a moment of complete weightlessness as if I am floating, and then I crash right into the hard bark of the trunk, smacking my nose.

"Shit!" I hiss quietly, fumbling to grasp a thin limb of the tree, feet flailing underneath me. The tree rocks greatly, and I'm sure that if I keep this up I'll fall out for sure. I finally find good footing on a branch and hug the tree for dear life. One wrong slip of the paw and I would've been a lion pancake. I look down and see that they haven't stirred. I sigh through my cheeks.

That could've been bad.

_Snap!_

What was that?!

I swivel my head to and fro for the source of the sound. It definitely wasn't me. And then I spot her cloaked in the drapes of the shadows like a ghost in the night. A small little girl with dark brown skin and glowing green eyes partly hidden behind a curtain of shining curls watches me not just a yard above my head. It's the little girl from District 11, the youngest of us all. I gasp lightly and she jumps at the noise, emerald eyes focused on me. I watch as she gingerly lifts a hand and presses a small finger to her brown lips and then points to something below me. I turn to look. Leaves, bark, the ground, the babbling brook, the giant hornets' nest, more leaves-

HOLY SHIT! A GIANT HORNETS NEST?!

And not just any giant hornets' nest, but a nest of mutated, Capitol-designed buggers who are man-made to kill, steal, and destroy. I've only seen them once, and the mere sight of them sent me running with my tail between my legs. Anything made in the Capitol labs never come out good-natured, except for Mockingjays. And I doubt these are as friendly as a singing bird.

I inhale sharply, claws embedding into the thick bark ever so deeper. I look to the girl only to see that she has vanished.

Where'd she go?

I survey the dark forest around me and witness a flash of a dark figure jumping from tree to tree like a monkey. Is that her? It must be.

Why would she warn me about the giant hornets' nest? Why would she point it out when she could have easily enough left without a sound, leaving me at the hands of the notorious batch of angry, mutated insects?

No time to think about it now. I have to keep moving forward. Unless…

Oh ho ho. I've got an idea.

At this very moment, I feel like the Grinch. Grumpy? Nah. But devious? Absolutely. You know that line in that Dr. Seuss book? Talking about the Grinch plotting to literally steal Christmas? "Then he got an idea. An awful idea. The Grinch got a wonderful, awful idea." That's exactly what is happening right now. If I can somehow detach the hive from the tree and drop it right on the pack of Careers, I can make an easy escape and possibly take out a tribute or two. I know it's not the most desirable, the best idea I've ever had, but it's better than being chased by weapon clad teenagers as I nearly plummet to my death over and over again.

I slowly lower myself to the hive. It's quiet; they must be asleep. I pull out a knife from the half-closed zipper of my bag and lower it to the branch holding up the hive. It's as big as my head and smells heavily of something strong. I know it's not honey because it's too sour, almost like spoiled milk. Perhaps it's some kind of poisonous substance that can turn me blue and I'll explode like a zit.

Wow. That was graphic.

I start to saw away at the stem. The knife is jagged and sharp, so in a matter of seconds I've already cut a wedge into the skin and meat of the branch, but with each push and pull of the blade the hive sways to and fro like a dangling Christmas ornament. If I keep this up, I'll wake up every one of those mutated hornets inside and I'll be dead before I can even say "oops". But I'm already halfway done, so the sooner I get this done and over with, the better.

The more I cut, the louder the hive gets. And the louder it gets, the more hornets wake up. The hive hums like a machine, almost purring. A hornet flies out, and another. They are about as long and wide as my finger, brightly black and yellow against the darkness of the night. They zip through the air almost lazily, still drowsy from their slumber. With a final drag of the knife, the hive comes free and I catch it before it falls. And with careful, quick movements, I thrust the ball of insect-crafted handiwork at the small group of tributes snoring away below me. It sails downward, hard and fast, and lands with a crushing _splat, _exploding with a cloud of acidic scent and a large mass of small black and yellow insects.

The surprised shrieks are just the start of an ongoing chorus of surprise and utter horror of what is now taking place. The hornets (now pissed off) attack anyone remotely close to them with their poisoned stingers and from the yelps of pain, I doubt they're pleasant. The tributes run to and fro, their arms waving around to shoo away the angry bugs. Gia screeches and runs away on all fours with half a dozen hornets on her tail. Tarzan calls for the others and they, too, book it. The boy who was supposed to be on watch staggers after them, sluggishly trekking to his fellow Careers. He had taken the worst hits from the hornets than any of the other tributes; the hive had landed at his feet. Even from where I am, I can see the swelling punctures of the stingers, preferably at his neck and face. He wheezes and falls to his knees, grabbing at his now bloated throat. He falls face-first into the dirt and stays down, motionless.

Now's my chance. I hurriedly climb down the tree, one eye on the speeding tributes running for their lives and the other on the ground coming closer and closer. Once my paws touch the cool moss at the base of the trunk, I shoulder my bag and head down in the opposite direction.

Try as I might, I can't stop looking at the boy-who gasps like a fish out of water, twitching spasms shaking his limbs. Some of the hornets had followed after the Careers, but a majority had stayed behind to take out their anger on the immobile body of the boy who lays helpless to their wrath.

I should leave. I should leave him here to die before I can gain some sympathy for him. I should go before I second guess myself. I cannot help him. No one can help him. As cold as it is, I cannot help him. He cannot be helped. I won't help him.

I am just about to turn on my heel when something catches my attention. A silver glint gleams off of the curve of a bow, the metal smooth and polished as it presses into the boy's back.  
My bow?! My bow!

I have to get it.

I dash to his side and hesitate to take the weapon strapped to his torso. One glance at his chestnut brown eyes and I already feel more than guilty for his fate. His once skinny figure is now a bloated mass of flesh that reeks of a pungent fragrance, the hornets now more like buzzards over a dead carcass. I gingerly grasp the length of metal and pull it over his shoulder only for it to stop.

Ugh! It's stuck.

"Dammit." Iwhisper under my breath. "Ow!" Something small, but evidently painful, pricks my cheek like a needle to a finger. A hornet has stung me. And another pinprick of pain shoots up my thigh.

I have to get out of here if I don't want to be the hornet's next victim. I yank harder and it springs free as does a loud crack resonating from the boy's now dislocated shoulder.

Whoops.

Another sting, this time in my bicep. My cheek, leg, and arm throb and start to grow lumps. My eyes start to tear up and my vision suddenly becomes distorted. The sky turns a strange shade of pink, the trees glimmering like glass. The earth spins under my paws much like the day I stepped up as a volunteer of the Hunger Games. I stand to my feet uneasily and run for it. Where I am running to, I don't know. The hornets, or what I think are hornets but look like flying cranberries, don't follow me.

I hear screams, screams of men, women, children. Their shrieks like the howling of a wolfpack. They grow louder and louder and louder. Fog starts to roll from all sides, enveloping the jungle in a blanket of grey. This fog then turns into shapes. Smokey figures dance in front of me, running and crying and screaming. More figures, white in comparison, throw nets, shoot bullets from their guns, yell out orders.

No! No no no no no no no no! This can't be happening. Not again.

I trip and fall right into a tree, the clear glass of the trunk cold and unmistakably smooth, but I cling to it as the scene plays before me as a nightmare come to life. A dark brown figure stands close by and takes the form of a frighteningly familiar figure. My father, Zuba, watches with misty green eyes as a gun goes off and bullet strikes his chest. I witness as I had a million times in my dreams as he collapses to the grown, crimson soiling the light brown fur of his chest. I whimper as he looks up at me, paw outstretched. I leap to grasp it just as he disappears in a puff of smoke. Now on my knees, a sob escapes my muzzle, racking my shoulders. A stream of tears trickles from my eyes. I clutch my aching stomach, a deep hollow sensation overcoming my innards.

Whispers ring in the air. They chant a haunting tune, lulling through the trees, the wind, my ears.

"_It's all your fault. It's all your fault. It's all your fault."_

"No! It's not. It's not my fault. I-I couldn't help him!" I squeak, my voice breaking. I mount to my feet, trudging forward, crying uncontrollably.

If I walk far enough, maybe they'll leave me alone.  
But they don't go away. They sing higher and higher until I clutch my head to block out their singing, but it's as if their voices have traveled from the jungle to the inside of my head, their melody bouncing off of the walls of my conscious.

"_It's all your fault. It's all your fault. It's all your fault."_

I stumble through the tangle of roots and vines of the jungle floor. They writhe and slither like snakes. The trees tinkle and glisten like windchimes, the leaves crystals. The sky is a blinding hot pink, the stars glittering blue. More singing, more screaming, more gunshots, more more more.

"_It's all your fault. It's all your fault. It's all your fault."_

"Stop it stop it stop STOP IT!" I scream. I fall into a pit of pooling liquid, flecks of red spraying my body. Some splashes into my mouth and the distinct taste of blood lingers in my mouth.

Blood. It's blood!

I try to swim away, but my legs have turned to wooden stilts. From the tips of my toes to the curve of my knees, they are nothing but carved, sanded wood, much like Pinocchio's. The blood soaks into my clothes and fur, staining me red. It bubbles and fizzes and pops and sizzles. It mingles with the tears leaking from my eyes.

"_It's all your fault. It's all your fault. It's all your fault."_

"STOP STOP STOP IT! LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!" A scream again, vocal cords straining.

So much blood, so much singing, so much screaming, so many gunshots…

I scream at the top of my lungs, yanking at the hair of my mane, claws scraping through my scalp. I scream to the pink sky with blue stars, I scream to the glass trees that shine like jewels, I scream to the smoky figures prancing around the ditch of boiling blood, I scream to the singing voices, the bellowing screams, the popping gunshots. I scream till I blackout.

Author's Note: That. Was. Intense. Sorry if that was a little scary for you. I've been getting a bit graphic and I'm sorry. I hope you like this story and if you have a problem with the more graphic parts, please let me know and I'll tone it down a notch. Thank you for your patience and please keep reading.


	17. Ch 17 Allies

When I wake up, I process two things: one, everything from my toes, tail, arms, and head hurt like hell. And two, I smell bacon.

No. Not bacon. Chicken, roasted chicken.

Through heavy-lidded eyes, I get my first good look at the world around me from my coma-like slumber. I half expect to see the same scenes from last night: blinding pink sky, glass trees, smoky figures, and the pool of blood I had bathed in before blacking out. But instead, I come to find clear blue skies dotted with clouds that resemble stretched cotton, the trees are back to their normal wood selves with normal green leaves; none of the smoky creatures scream, cry, or shoot guns because they're not there; and the blood pool has been replaced with a shallow dip in the jungle floor.

All of those bizarre things that had happened were nothing but hallucinations. Nothing but figments of my imagination induced by the poison in the insects' stingers, designed to torture me into unexplainable agony within minutes. All courtesy of the Capitol.

I'll have to send my thanks.

And yet, if it was never there and if it all was just an illusion from the poison of the mutated hornets, how come I'm seeing a girl tending to a fire not three feet away from me?

At first, I think I'm dead. That whatever god in the heavens had the tolerance to care about me when I was being tormented took pity on my sorry ass and put me out of my misery. Then they had sent this angel to take care of my wounded self before taking me off to wherever dead souls go to in the afterlife. But with the insane throbbing in my head, I doubt that I'm dead. You're not supposed to feel pain when you're dead, right?

Then I realize that I recognize the girl. The brown skin, green eyes, and shiny curls are all a slap to the face for how I hadn't seen it before. It's the girl from last night, the one who had warned me about the mutated bugs.

Did she die too?

I try to sit up only to have what feels like a knife stabbing me shoot up my ribs.

"Shit..." I hiss, squinting my eyes shut at the intensity of the pain.

The girl hears me and rushes to my side, gently ushering me downwards. "You have to lay back down. You need to rest."

I peek at her through my clamped eyelids and see the sincerity in her voice match the concern in her expression. For someone so young, she carries herself as if she's an adult. I notice that she has a strange accent, too exotic for me to place. Barbados, maybe.

Seeing that I have no reason not to trust her (yet, anyway), I do as she says and lay back down. She nods, the baby coils of black hair crowning her brow bouncing like springs. She shuffles back to the fire she has built, a small bowl bubbling over a propped stick and a dead, skinned bird slowly roasting over the orange flames.

"How long have I been out?" I mumble, rubbing at the aching forming in my temples.

"About 12 hours," she says.

12 fucking hours?!

"I thought it would be best to let you sleep seeing the bugs got you pretty good." She halfheartedly points towards me as she stirs whatever is in the bowl with a wooden spoon. I glance down at where I remember the hornets had stung me and I am met with a big-ass lump of fur and flesh blacking my left eye. I gingerly touch the wound where clearly the stinger was punctured and flinch at its tenderness. I know that a couple more lie under my clothes. I can only imagine what they look like in someone else's eyes.

"What are you making?" I ask to make small talk.

I barely know this kid. I've only seen her from television screens and in the training center. Aside from always watching me, she hasn't shown that much interest in me. She has never shown much interest in anything, as far as I'm concerned. From what I've gathered from her shadowing me in the past week is that she is quiet and reserved, only ever talking to her fellow tribute from District 11. She had barely said much of anything at the interview with Caesar Flickerman. And yet here she is, tending to me like a kind woman nursing a sick friend back to health, chit-chatting (what little chit-chat has been said) as if I am not a full-grown ass lion with not one but two knives, needle-sharp teeth, and deadly claws.

"Broth," she retorts simply, pulling the sleeves of her jacket over her hands and taking the bowl off of its perch. She cautiously carries it to me, steam wafting under her curls, perspiration gathering on her smooth forehead. She ladles the wooden spoon into the soup and tries to feed it to me. I scoot away immediately, despite the shock of pain coursing through my body at the movement. She seems surprised at my retraction.

"It's okay. It's good," she says.

"How do I know you didn't poison it just to kill me off?" I respond defensively.

Now that I am awake, my brain is on hyperdrive, overflowing with suspicion for this newcomer. Okay, sure. She may have saved my ass back there when I had leaped into another tree and basically hinted that I could use the hive of mutated hornets against the Careers. And she could've left me to die or waste away in this ditch after last night's fit and could've just ignored me for the rest of the Games. In all honesty, I nearly forgot about her.

But no. Instead, she's here with a fucking bowl of broth and a stupid sweet smile plastered on her face as if she isn't my enemy. As if this isn't the perfect opportunity to slice my throat now that I am weak and vulnerable.

She sighs and takes the spoon into her mouth and slurps up the liquid and swallows.

Well, I guess that's proof enough she isn't trying to kill me.

She starts to feed me like a mother to her child. The broth is warm and flavorless but still filling. I gulp down mouthful after mouthful until the bowl is empty. It's rather refreshing now that I realize just how hungry I am. She then grabs a bottle of water from my bag and helps me drink. I want to inhale it all down the hatch, but she coaxes me to take sips or I'll regurgitate. Aka, vomit. I do as she says.

She takes the bowl and spoon and carries them over to the brook that is amazingly still close by.

With what happened last night, I thought I had run away from it. I guess not.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask, finally giving in to my curiosity.

She stops for a moment, the dishes dripping in her hands mid-wash. She saunters over and sits down, turning the cooking bird over the fire absentmindedly.

"I… " she hesitates. "I don't know. I just saw you, lying there, motionless, and it hurt to see you like that. All swollen and still. I… I thought you were dead."

"So… what? You thought that maybe you could bring me back to life or something?" I ask. I know it sounds dumb the moment I say it, and I immediately want to kick myself for how lame it is.

You fucking moron!

She giggles lightly. "No. I knew you were alive. The cannon didn't go off."

"Then why are you doing this if you knew that I was alive, let alone in fine health?"

Okay, sure. I'm not it the best state of health seeing that I have swelling flesh that looks like fur-coated balloons attached to my body. But I can manage. Trust me when I say I've been through worse shit.  
She can't be doing this out of the kindest of her heart. Even the softest of us must put away our good nature in order to stay alive in this arena. You only do certain things that will help you survive. So for her to look after me is not an act of genuine kindness, but of that of selfishness. Of survival.

But what could she possibly offer me if I am to be of some use to me? She may be able to cook and nurse me back to health, but after that, I can easily turn on her. I'm not saying that I will, but the fact of the matter is that she is powerless against me. She doesn't stand a chance in a fight with a walking, talking lion, or any tribute for that matter-

That's it! That's what she's out for!  
She is small and weak compared to the others. I've seen her. She is good with plants and concealment, one of the best actually. But when it comes to warfare, she struggles drastically. She absolutely refused to go into the training ring after her first fight where she nearly got choked out by a man three times her size. She cannot fight. If and when she is ever caught in hand to hand combat, she will most definitely lose.

And that's where I come in. She wants me as her loyal protector. Someone who knows their way around the wilderness and can wield weapons decently. Someone who can benefit from her, and she to them. Someone to be her ally.

I'm sure that she knows that I am aware of her needs because she refuses to look at me. She turns to the bird, takes it away from the crackling fire, and takes a bite.

"Have you ever thought about making an alliance?" I ask suddenly.

I have to help her. Try as I might, and I am trying my damndest, I can't leave her. She is truly helpless and chose me of all people to aid her in this sick, twisted journey of the Hunger Games. And me having a soft spot for kids, (I work at an orphanage in my free time. What the hell do you expect?) I have an overwhelming urge to take up the task as her personal bodyguard.

Is it completely crazy? Absolutely!  
Is it risky as fuck? 100%

Will I be endangering my chances of getting out of here alive by keeping her company, feeding her, and fighting for her just so we can make it farther in the Games only to leave the other knowing that one (if not both) of us will have to die in the end? Yep.

Am I still going to do it? You bet your ass yes!

Her eyes widen, mouth dropping open into an 'o'. A piece of meat is wedged in a molar, grease smearing her brown lips like chapstick. She swallows, wiping the bird residue from her mouth. "I-I hadn't really thought about it," she stutters.

Oh really? I smirk internally, knowing full well that she's lying for the sake of face.

"Would you want to be my ally?" I ask.

She gasps lightly. I guess she wasn't expecting me to come to her and ask so blatantly. I bet she even had this whole thing planned out, bringing it up discreetly. Me just putting out in the open is unexpected, but she lights up like a Christmas tree at my offer.

"I would like that very much!" She cheers. She holds out her hand as if we were casually greeting one another for the first time. "Gratuity Tucci, but my friends call me Tip."  
I grasp her hand, my paw a massive mountain compared to her tiny palm and fingers. I make sure I don't squeeze too hard. Don't want to break my new ally's hand. "Alex Lyon."

I'm not sure how Gobber feels about this, or even if he cares. He would probably say something like, "Don' be an oaf! Use tha' sorry e'cuse of a mellon and don' try ta kill yerself!"

To hell what Gobber thinks! If you don't like it, you're just going to have to deal with it. My mind is made up.

The rest of the day is spent on trying to fix what damage the hornets inflicted on me. Gratuity grinds up powder with leaves and a bunch of other stuff she finds in the dirt into a dusty substance and then mixes it with water, creating a mucky goo. She spreads the slime onto the bloated wounds and immediately I feel relieved of some (if not most) of the pain. In a matter of minutes, the lumps have shrunk down two sizes.

I feel better, and therefore I start to help gather food. Gratuity shows me how to catch the bird she had eaten earlier. She calls them grooslings, turkey-like birds with yellow beaks and grey feathers. She says they have a couple of flocks back in her district, and if they were lucky they would catch some and eat them for dinner.

I make a makeshift fishing pole with some excess string from my jacket and a large branch and teach her how to cast while I shoot at fish with my new bow. We gather plants and berries together while we wait for a bite.

I'm surprised that no one has come looking for us. We're out in the open, plus we have a fire going that practically sends up a smoke signal to the other tributes.

But then I remember that there's only 10 of us. The boy who was brutally attacked by the angry bugs had died, I'm sure. And I'm assuming that the others had made it out alive as I had. Excluding me and Gratuity, there are now four Careers, the fox girl who had gone off on her own, the other tribute from District 11, and Gia. The still-living Careers are probably recovering from last night's incident and the two other individuals haven't been seen for days. And whatever happened to Gia, I have no idea.

We put together the day's findings and make a meal of it all. Roasted fish, two grooslings, a bushel of berries and a batch nutty roots. It all tastes amazing, almost better than some of the meals back at the Capitol. We clean up after ourselves and decide to relax for a little bit.

You know, without all the blood-hungry tributes and the shitload soul-crushing anxiety of fatigue and fear that increases with every near-death experience, the arena isn't so bad. The jungle is nice enough, warm in the day, cooler in the night. There haven't been any feral threats like savage animals--aside from the hornets--and as far as I can tell, no immediate danger lies ahead of us. But that doesn't mean there won't be.

The sky is a subtle orange, blazing with hints of red and pink and yellow. It reminds me of Tigress.

An ache grows in my chest at the thought. I've been too busy to acknowledge it, but I miss her. I miss my family, the woods rimming the outskirts of the Seam. I miss all of the kids back at the orphanage, the traders at the Hob. I miss my home.

"What's that?" Gratuity asks, interrupting my train of thought. She motions at my pin. It gleams in the bright firelight, golden bands of light reflecting in sparkling yellow.

"It's a pin. My friend gave it to me," I pause for a moment, steeling myself, "before I left."

"Is it from the one you volunteered for? Marty?" She asks.

It's just a question. A simple question, at that. And yet it feels like she had punched me in the face with a brick.

"Yeah," I answer after a pause.

"It's very pretty," she comments.

I know she's just trying to be nice, friendly even, but I don't want to talk about this. I had a hard enough time discussing it with the infamous Caesar Flickerman, let alone an entire crowd of Capitol citizens. I don't want to go through that again.

Man the fuck up, Alex! Just try for once in your sorry, weak-ass life to be the badass everyone thinks you are!

"I have something like that, too," she pulls out something hidden under her jacket, hanging on a length of twine looped around her neck. My eyebrows knit together in confusion. She shows me a wooden figure no bigger than my finger. Expertly carved and sanded to an impossible smoothness, nothing out of the ordinary. What it's shaped into is what's so baffling about it. From what I can tell, it's a creature with a pill-shaped body and curled lobes on the sides of its head. A multitude of small pods adorn its lower body like feet as do gangly arms with only three fingers. Bulbous eyes the size of marbles stare back at me, it's goofy grin showcasing teeth almost too big for its mouth.

"What is it?"

Gratuity sensed my confusion before I even asked. She giggles at my bewilderment of the thing hanging off of her necklace.

"When I was a little, I had an imaginary friend named Oh." She states.

"Oh what?"

"No. Not 'oh'. Oh, like as a name." She chides amusedly.

"Oh, I see!"

"Yeah," she chuckles lightly.

She looks more like her age now that she is a little looser, free. I wonder how she was before she was admitted into the Games. Did she play with children her own age or did she have to work with the adults instead?

It wouldn't surprise me. I know of a number of kids back at District 12 who said they were 17 when they were clearly much younger so that they could work in the mines early. No one said or did anything about it. We all knew that they were only doing it to provide for their families. Why stop them if they can do something to help?

"Oh was, according to my mom, an alien from outer space. She said I had described him so well that she was able to carve him out of a block of wood. She gave it to me as a gift." Gratuity says, looking at the fine work of craftsmanship with tender longing.

I know the feeling.

"Your mom whittles?" I ask.

"Whenever she can. She loves it so much that she taught me before I could even talk," she says jokingly. She tucks the wooden charm back into her jacket, her fingers lingering over the string holding her most prized possession.

I look up at the sky again. It has darkened quickly.

"What do you say we get some rest?" I remark.

She nods after a long yawn for an answer. We climb up a tree with plenty of foliage for camouflage (no way am I making that same mistake again) and tuck ourselves in for the night. The sleeping bag was small with just me being its user, now that there's a teenager with me, it will be too tight for the both of us. I give it to her despite her pleading me to take it and I settle for my jacket. She snuggles into my side and sighs in bliss.

She hasn't had anything to protect her from the cold nights. I can imagine how grateful she must be for being relieved of the unbearable chill of the jungle.

The anthem plays and only one name and one picture are shown. The boy who had died from the countless mutated hornet stingers. The boy who had died at my paws. His chestnut brown eyes haunt me and for a moment I can feel them observing me, pleading for help, dying.

I fall asleep to the soft snores of my new ally, Gratuity Tucci, the second tribute of District 11. A woman of a child, and my new enemy.

Author's Note: I honestly wanted this done before Christmas, or even New Year's Day. I got busy, though, and couldn't find the time. Sorry about that. I hope you guys enjoyed it and stick with me, the story continues. Thank you!


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